Drifted in :: :: University of Virginia Library

Way up in the loft, with cadence soft,
The silvery chimes were ringing,
And through the glare of the Autumn air,
Thanksgiving-hymns were singing:
Golden chimes that brought the rhymes,
The sacred songs, of good old times
Back to the worldling's wakened ear,
And drew some quaint old church more near,
That maybe had crumbled many a year.

And coachmen laced and stolid-faced
Drove up to the church's portal;

And men once more passed through the door
To thank the King Immortal,
And hear the music that decked the day,
And look at the altar's new display:
For such is ever the human way.

Now out in the street, with half-clad feet,
And garments shabbily clinging,
A child there stood in a dreamy mood,
And harked to the church-bells' ringing,
With thin hand pressed against her breast,
As if the harmony gave her rest;
As if each note, as it softly stole
Out of its swinging brazen bowl,
Was a morsel of food to her hungry soul.

But when like a band from unseen land
That with the world rejoices,
The organ hurled to the outside world
A hundred silver voices,
Into the eyes of the child there came
A torch as lit by a sudden flame;
And through her memory seemed to flow
Something she still must come to know,
And yet had forgotten long ago.

And none the less for her ragged dress
She sped to the door—unfearing;
And through she went, her soul intent
On the strains of music hearing.
Her great sad eyes bedecked with dew,
She passed along with the others through,
And seated herself in a velvet pew!

The sexton gazed with an eye amazed,
Upon this odd intrusion:
And his laundried sheen and placid mien
Were canopied with confusion.
Out of the door he quickly led
The little maid; and brusquely said,
“There are churches enough for you instead.”

But still the sound of the organ drowned
The noise of her heart's complaining;
Now with echoes choice of the human voice,
And a queen-soprano reigning!
She crept to the hall—nor lingered there;
But climbed to the gallery's utmost stair,
And with her changing eyes on fire
With new ambition and old desire,
She gazed at the organ and the choir.

The chief of the song, with baton long,
Was numbering each bright measure,
But looking around the child he found,
And scowled his dark displeasure;
His eyes and his lip and his baton dropped,
And well that the music had not stopped!
He never had known a guest like that:
There came from his mouth a hissing “Skat!”—
She skurried away like a frightened cat.

And out in the street once more her feet
On the flinty curb were falling,
And still from within the delicious din
Of music's voice was calling,

And still for a place to hear in search,
She walked the length of the palace-church,
And finding an open vestry door,
Crept into the stately house once more,
And started this region to explore.

A passage in haste the child yet traced,
And then to her consternation
On the platform high stood in the eye
Of the wondering congregation!
The ragged girl in the stylish place
Made smiles go leaping from face to face.
The pastor turned and saw her near:
A man that the people loved to hear,
At several thousand dollars a year;

But with each day he toiled his way
With requisite fear and trembling,
And with no tone addressed the throne,
Of boldness or dissembling.
Striving God's heart and a child's to please,
On the sofa he seated the girl at ease:
Saying “‘Unless we become as the least of these.’”

The whole hour long, to sermon and song,
With eyes that fitfully glistened
And cheeks that burned with joy new-learned,
The tiny maiden listened.
And now that a few more years are fled,
The waif is a singer of songs instead;
Aglow with that suddenly kindled flame,

She treads the heights of a splendid fame:
You would know her well, did I tell her name.