  Mute was the mighty organ. None might break The silence that had thralled it since was stilled The master-hand beneath whose touch it thrilled To music such as choiring seraphs make— Until a mightier Master came to wake Th' elusive chords and subtle harmonies That lay imprisoned in the cold white keys And once again the soul of Music spake. Methought my soul's most perfect melodies No hand again to sonance could evoke— A silent harp whose potence none might prove— Celestial strains, divinest harmonies, Responsive to the master-touch of Love. |
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