Classic Poem

Low sounding, like the storm-foretelling moan
That sweeps through forests vast,
The organ notes swell out with solemn tone;
The torch glare, dimly cast
Along the broad aisle, deepens into gloom,
Where an old painting keeps
Watch o'er an alter, 'mid whose sweet perfume
A pictured Saviour sleeps.

Slowly the music gathers strength, and rolls
In bold, swift power along,
Even as the tempest 'mid the shaggy boles,
Rises to ringing song.
And then the chanting comes — " Glory to Thee "
Sounds echoing up the dome,
Like the weird voices of the storm-swept sea,
Sent far through driving foam.

" Father, Oh, Father! Hear us! " sounding low
Then — " Thou art king of all ; "
Like fierce wind-trumpets, when they whirl the snow
'Mong trees that bend and fall.
" Give us Thy loving rest , " like soft air blown
O'er fields of golden grain;
Then — " Lord have mercy! We are Thine alone! "
Sounds out like throbs of pain.

" Be with us ever, hold us in Thy care, "
Like the sad wail of those
Who see their homes made desolate and bare
By the mad hate of foes.
" Give us Thy love, Oh, Lord! Thy love most high!
Like streams that ripple sweet
Where green grass grows, and darts the dragon fly,
Shaded from summer heat.

" God of our fathers, draw us near to Thee. "
Like leaves that slowly sway,
Mingled with blossoms, where the booming bee
On busy wing doth stray;
" Help us, oh, Lord, help us! " like swords that ring
Where battle's tumult floats;
" Glory to Thee! Our Father, and our King! "
In loud, victorious notes.

" Oh! Father! Father! " like a suppliant's prayer,
Repenting some great wrong;
" The earth is Thine; Thy love makes all life fair, "
In high, triumphant song.
Then slowly, slowly sink the notes, and fades
The torches' flaring light,
But still the music echoes in the shades
That shroud the steps of night.