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THE MUSICIAN AND THE ORGAN.

171

Never to be again! But many more of the kind As good, nay, better perchance : is this your

comfort to me ? To me who must be saved because I cling with my

mind To the same, same self, same love, same God: ау, , what was,

shall be.

Therefore to whom turn I but to Thee, the in

effable Name ? Builder and maker, Thou, of houses not made

with hands! What, have fear of change from Thee who art ever

the same ? Doubt that Thy power can fill the heart that Thy

power expands ? There shall never be one lost good! What was

shall live as before; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying

sound; What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so

much good more ; On the earth the broken arcs ; in heaven, a

perfect round.

172

THE MUSICIAN AND THE ORGAN.

All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good,

shall exist; Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor

good, power Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for

the melodist When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth

too hard, The passion that left the ground to lose itself in

the sky,

Are music sent up to God by the lover and the

bard ; Enough that He heard it once; we shall hear it

by-and-by.

And what is our failure here but a triumph's

evidence For the fulness of the days ? Have we withered

or agonized ? Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing

might issue thence ? Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony

should be prized ?

THE MUSICIAN AND THE ORGAN.

173

Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the

weal and woe : But God has a few of us whom He whispers in the

ear ;

The rest may reason and welcome : 'tis we

musicians know.

Well it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign; I will be patient and proud, and soberly

acquiesce. Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord

again, Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor,

yes, And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien

ground, Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into

the deep; Which, hark, I have dared and done, for

my resting-place is found, The C major of this life : so, now I will try to sleep.

ROBERT BROWNING.

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COME to thee, O Earth !
With all my gifts :—for every flower

sweet dew,
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew

The glory of its birth.

Not one which glimmering lies
Far amidst folding hills or forest leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives

A spirit of fresh dyes.

I come with every star: Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track Gave but the moss, the reed, the lily back,

Mirrors of Worlds afar.

THE SONG OF NIGHT.

175

I come with peace ; I shed Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,

The hyacinth's meek head.

On my own heart I lay
The weary babe, and, sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath

The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things ! Who calls me silent ? I have many tonesThe dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans,

Borne on my sweeping wings.

I waft them not alone
From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,

Till the bright day is done ;

But in the human breast A thousand still small voices I awake, Strong in their sweetness from the soul to shake

The mantle of its rest. 1

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