Zinzendorff and Other Poems/"The Dead praise not the Lord"

by Lydia Huntley Sigourney

"THE DEAD PRAISE NOT THE LORD."
David.

 
Deep dwellers in those cells profound
    Where dreamless slumbers reign,
No lingering sigh, nor grateful sound
    Bursts from your drear domain.

But ye, upon whose unseal'd eye
    Creation's glory breaks,
When Morning opes the purple sky,
    Or Eve her sceptre takes,

Ye to whose ear a thrilling strain
    Of harmony doth rise,
From warbling grove and wind-swept main
    While Echo's voice replies,

Whose buoyant footsteps wander o'er
    Gay Summer's blooming fields,
Whose free hands pluck the golden store
    That lavish Autumn yields,

Oh! praise the Author of your breath,
    The Giver of your joy,
Until the icy hand of death
    Time's fragile harp destroy—

Till rising where immortal lyres
    Shall to your hand be given,
Ye find that ye on earth have learn'd
    The melody of Heaven.