  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 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, 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. |
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