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Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs

By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others

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The Old Cathedral Organist.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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The Old Cathedral Organist.

'T is forty years ago since first
I climbed these dusty, winding stairs
To play the Dean in: how I spurned
Beneath my feet all meaner cares,
When first I leant, my cheek on fire,
And looked down blushing at the choir!
Handel, and Haydn, and Mozart—
I thought they watched me as I played;
While Palestrina's stern, sad face
Seemed in the twilight to upbraid;
Pale fingers moved upon the keys—
The ghost-hands of past centuries.
Behind my oaken battlement
Above the door I used to lean,
And watch the puffing crimson hood,
As floated in, full sail, the Dean;
And then, the organ breathing low,
Began to murmur soft and slow.
I used to shut my eyes, and hear
The solemn prophecy and psalm
Rise up like incense; and I loved
Before the prayer the lull and calm,
Till, like a stream that bursts its banks,
Broke forth brave Purcell's “O give Thanks.”
I knew those thirteen hundred pipes
And thirty stops, as blind men do
The voices of the friends they love,
The birds' song, and the thunder too;
And the fierce diapason's roar,
Like storms upon a rocky shore.
And now to-day I yield me up
The dusty seat, my old loved throne,
Unto another; and no more
Shall come here in the dusk alone,
Or in the early matin hour,
To hear my old friend's voice of power.
And yet methinks that, centuries hence,
Lying beneath the chancel floor,
In that dark nook I shall delight
To hear the anthem's swell once more,
And to myself shall calmly smile
When music floods the vaulted aisle.
Or mocking gravely at some hand
Less skilful than my own was once,
In my snug nest I'll lie, and mark
The blunders of the foolish dunce;
But to myself the secret keep,
And turn me round again to sleep.