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Slowly consuming with its inward flame,
We stir not, speak not, lest we break the spell.

Emma Lasarus.



Gift of the faithful, the eloquent organ, Gracing the loft that faces the transept, Waits for the master to waken the spirit Forth from the marvellous heart of the in


Silent as yet are the tall golden bourdons,
Motionless lie the powerful bellows;
Closed are the stops, all inert are the pedals:
They will respond at the hour of the festival.

Come, O breath of the gale from the ocean, Come from the far distant murmuring forest, Come from the reeds that sigh by the river: It is your music the master makes manifest.

Songs of the warblers, the soughing of

branches, Waterfalls, mountain-brooks, silverly tinkling,

Echo of lakes when the ice shouts his pæan – All these mellifluous voices you bring with

you !

Nathan Haskell Dole.


As some cathedral vast, whose lofty spire

Is ever pointing upward to the sky, Whose grand proportions, transept, nave, and

choir, Impress with awe, and charm by sym

metry, Stupendous pile, where sister arts with grave And loving tenderness mould form and

frieze, Adorn entablature and architrave,

And touch with life the marble effigies, – So, great tone-master, strength and sweetness

dwell In thee, close-knit in interwoven chain Of harmony, by whose resistless spell,

Uplifted to sublime, supernal strain, The soul shall reach the noble, true, and

pure, Strong to achieve, and faithful to endure!

Zitella Cocke.

Zdagio Consolante

from Painting by George Hesslin

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