University of Virginia Library

Hymn to the Living

The voiceless spirits, they who have given up
The being that God gave; till hand, foot, and voice,
Apart from him whom once they honored,
Find their tasks without forethought or wish,
These ever give thee back unto thyself,
When wandering thou wouldst stray, a new-born man.
I sing of them, for they have fallen asleep;
And no voice comes back, nor motion shows them
Living amid the dead, yet living still.
Where are they? in your midst; the forms that night
Radiant with fires discloses o'er your head,
And day walks forth with, when bright-girt he comes;
And thou but findst a lamp for thine own task,
A moon and stars that still may light thee on
Till finished the short race thy day begun.
Motionless yet moving roll on their orbs,
Measuring in shining planes thy little life
Of days, and months, and years unnoticed save
For them.
Hail Forms, the eye sees not; and Tones, that speak
But in the silent hymn of nature's praise!
Hail ye, who touch no lyre, but that low harp
That man can never hear till woke in God!
Come forth, ye whom the tombs have held so long!
Though but the shadows of your greatness fall
Upon the sight, and echoes reach the ear;
'Twill strengthen us to rise, who now are dead,
And follow on, where you have led the way.
Long have we sought you, and in distant worlds;
When ye were here amongst us; on your lives
We live, yet ask we who you are, as men
Forgotten. With the bud and leaf comes forth
Daily the record of your excellence,
In words that will not die upon our ear,
Ye hidden all; as is the current sap,
That weaves Spring's robe, or light that gives it hue.
In you as her we lose our little selves,
Forgetting in your bounties they who give.
Great Teachers! born to be with God, and teach
The letters of His wisdom; may we all
Count costless till with you we live as brothers;
Of the same Father, born to hear His word.
Come! we will sit as children at your feet,
And throw away the pride, that made us call
They who were sent from Him, the Good, our equals.
Pour, pour the rain from out your burial urns,
Scatter the sun-beams on our wasted fields,
Till blossoms, flowers, and fruit scent hill and plain;
Yet will we shut our eyes on all, to see
The Giver, and who teach to give like Him.
Ye stand not on the numbered page of Time;
But have withdrawn yourselves beyond the praise,
The short-lived praise of men, to hear of God.
The day on which you speak is called his own;
The hour on which He calls us children bids
Wait on you to learn our Father's acts;
Whom first He honored with the name of sons.
The world that is has vanished from your sight;
Its journeys with your last-day's march complete:
Teach us to walk the road that you have been,
Made plain at every step by what you were;
Invisible; still be to us as seen;
Fresh breathing on us with each gale that blows,
Our way still lighting with each sun that shines.
Ye Unseen Messengers! Apostles sent
By Christ, moving and finding voice in words!
Forms! that visit human hearts as dwellings;
Be near us ever, ever be our guests!
The night is dying out; and ye begin
To walk among us, Gigantic Shadows
Flung before the rising sun; in early
Morning's pale light seen, noticing the Day.
And Thou, who givest all, whose children these;
Ever Invisible! The Day in which all see!
Amid thy gifts may we walk fearfully;
Lest, lost in their profession, we find them
Instead of Thee. Straying amid thy works
We know Thee not; best seen in these thy sons;
In whom Thine Image shines to light our way.