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.