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Slowly consuming with its inward flame,
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,
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
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!