 | Western windows and other poems |  |
201
THE BURIED ORGAN.
Far in a valley green and lone,
Lying within some legend old,
Sometimes is heard an Organ's tone,
Trembling, into the silence roll'd:
In vanish'd years (the legend stands)
To save it from the unhallowing prey
Of foeman's sacrilegious hands,
The monks their Organ bore away.
Lying within some legend old,
Sometimes is heard an Organ's tone,
Trembling, into the silence roll'd:
In vanish'd years (the legend stands)
To save it from the unhallowing prey
Of foeman's sacrilegious hands,
The monks their Organ bore away.
None knows the spot wherein they laid
That body of the heavenly soul
Of Music: deep in forest shade,
Forgotten, lies the grave they stole;
But oftentimes, in Morning gold,
Or through the Twilight's hushing air,
Within that valley, green and old,
The Organ's soul arises there.
That body of the heavenly soul
Of Music: deep in forest shade,
Forgotten, lies the grave they stole;
But oftentimes, in Morning gold,
Or through the Twilight's hushing air,
Within that valley, green and old,
The Organ's soul arises there.
202
Oh, low and sweet, and strange, and wild,
It whispers to the holier air,
Gentle as lispings of a child—
Mild as a mother's breathless prayer
While silence trembles, sweet and low:
Then rapture bursts into the skies,
And chanting angels, winging slow
On wings of music, seem to rise!
It whispers to the holier air,
Gentle as lispings of a child—
Mild as a mother's breathless prayer
While silence trembles, sweet and low:
Then rapture bursts into the skies,
And chanting angels, winging slow
On wings of music, seem to rise!
The herdsman sometimes, all alone,
Is lost within that haunted air:
He hears the buried Organ's tone—
His hands are cross'd, his breath is prayer!
And, while into his heart it steals,
With hushing footsteps, downcast eyes,
Some grand cathedral's awe he feels—
A church of air, and earth, and skies!
Is lost within that haunted air:
He hears the buried Organ's tone—
His hands are cross'd, his breath is prayer!
And, while into his heart it steals,
With hushing footsteps, downcast eyes,
Some grand cathedral's awe he feels—
A church of air, and earth, and skies!
Often, when the sweet wand of Spring
Has fill'd the woods with flowers unsown,
Or Autumn's dreamy breeze's wing
Flutters through falling leaves, alone
I wander forth, and leave behind
The city's dust, the sultry glare:
A lonely dell, far-off, I find—
I know the Buried Organ there!
Has fill'd the woods with flowers unsown,
Or Autumn's dreamy breeze's wing
Flutters through falling leaves, alone
I wander forth, and leave behind
The city's dust, the sultry glare:
A lonely dell, far-off, I find—
I know the Buried Organ there!
203
Within the city's noisy air
I leave the creeds their Sabbath bells;
I cross my hands, my breath is prayer,
Hearing that Organ's mystic swells.
The sweet birds sing, the soft winds blow,
The flowers have whispers low, apart:
All wake within me, loud or low,
God's buried Organ—in my heart!
I leave the creeds their Sabbath bells;
I cross my hands, my breath is prayer,
Hearing that Organ's mystic swells.
The sweet birds sing, the soft winds blow,
The flowers have whispers low, apart:
All wake within me, loud or low,
God's buried Organ—in my heart!
| Western windows and other poems | |