POETRY.

FOR THE LITCHFIELD ENQUIRER. THE VOICE OF DEATH.
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THE VOlCE Ot DEAFH' The voice of Death! the voice of Death! We hear it in the low winds breath,

 That mOans among the tombs-- And in the deep and fitful wall Of the loud rushing autumn gale,

 Strewing the fow'r that blooms. In the dealh-bell's gloomy toIIing- In the thunder's solemn rolling,

 Pealing from hill to hill- In the hoarse roar of old Ocean, When his pillows are in motion,

 We hear the deep voice still. We hear Il in the thrilling tone Of the lone deatfT-bed's hollow groan,

 As with suppress'd feeling, Affection gazes on that face Der which Deca, g eternal trace

 FearlulIy is stealing. And at the grave-Oh! there its knell Throws o'er the soul its saddest spell, Lost by mem'ry never, When the cold sod in tones of dread, Fails on the coffin of the dead,

 Buried there forever. CAMPBELL.