The Voice Of The Dead.

Oh! call us not silent,     The throng of the dead!     Though in visible being     No longer we tread     The pathways of earth,     From the grave and the sky,     From the halls of the Past     And the star-host on high,     We speak to the spirit     In language divine;     List, Mortal, our song,     Ere its burden be thine.     Our labor is finished,     Our race it is run;     The guerdon eternal     Is lost or is won;     A beautiful gift     Is the life thou dost share;     Bewail not its sorrow,     Despise not its care;     The rainbow of Hope     Spans the ocean of Time;     High triumph and holy     Makes conflict sublime.     Work ever! Life's moments     Are fleeting and brief;     Behind is the burden,     Before, the relief.     Work nobly! the deed     Liveth bright in the Past,     When the spirit that planned     Is at rest from the blast;     Work nobly! the Infinite     Spreads to thy sight,     The higher thou soarest     The stronger thy flight.     And when from thy vision     Loved faces shall wane,     And thy heart-strings thrill wildly     With anguish and pain;     The voices that now     Are as faint as the tone     Of the Zephyr, that stirs not     The rose on its throne,     Shall burst on thy soul,--     An orchestra divine,     With seraph and cherub     From Deity's shrine.