The Master-Player

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 —

But, lo! one came who swept its chords and woke

Celestial strains, divinest harmonies,

Responsive to the master-touch of Love.