 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
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THE ORGAN
It is no harmony of human making,
Though men have built those pipes of burnished gold;
Their music, out of Nature's heart awaking,
Forever new, forever is of old.
Though men have built those pipes of burnished gold;
Their music, out of Nature's heart awaking,
Forever new, forever is of old.
Man makes not—only finds—all earthly beauty,
Catching a thread of sunshine here and there,
Some shining pebble in the path of duty,
Some echo of the songs that flood the air.
Catching a thread of sunshine here and there,
Some shining pebble in the path of duty,
Some echo of the songs that flood the air.
That prelude is a wind among the willows,
Rising until it meets the torrent's roar;
Now a wild ocean, beating his great billows
Among the hollow caverns of the shore.
Rising until it meets the torrent's roar;
Now a wild ocean, beating his great billows
Among the hollow caverns of the shore.
It is the voice of some vast people, pleading
For justice from an ancient shame and wrong,—
The tramp of God's avenging armies, treading
With shouted thunders of triumphant song.
For justice from an ancient shame and wrong,—
The tramp of God's avenging armies, treading
With shouted thunders of triumphant song.
O soul, that sittest chanting dreary dirges,
Couldst thou but rise on some divine desire,
As those deep chords upon their swelling surges
Bear up the wavering voices of the choir!
Couldst thou but rise on some divine desire,
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Bear up the wavering voices of the choir!
But ever lurking in the heart, there lingers
The trouble of a false and jarring tone,
As some great Organ which unskillful fingers
Vex into discords when the Master's gone.
The trouble of a false and jarring tone,
As some great Organ which unskillful fingers
Vex into discords when the Master's gone.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |