« ZurückWeiter »
A LOST CHORD.
EATED one day at the Organ,
I do not know what I was playing,
But I struck one chord of music,
It flooded the crimson twilight
And it lay on my fevered spirit
It quieted pain and sorrow,
It seemed the harmonious echo
It linked all perplexed meanings
Into one perfect peace,
As if it were loth to cease.
1 have sought, but I seek it vainly,
Which came from the soul of the Organ,
It may be that Death's bright angel
It may be that only in Heaven
USH! speak low; tread softly;Draw the sheet aside ;— Yes, she does look peaceful; With that smile she died.
Yet stern want and sorrow
Even now you trace
Of the still white face.
Restless, helpless, hopeless, Was her bitter part;—
She who toiled and laboured
For her daily bread; See the velvet hangings
Of this stately bed.
Yes, they did forgive her;
Brought her home at last; Strove to cover over
Their relentless past.
Ah, they would have given Wealth, and home, and pride,
They strove hard to please her,
All you know is deadened,
And besides, one sorrow
Was beyond them: healing
If she had but lingered
Or had this letter reached her
I can almost pity
Even him to-day; Though he let this anguish
Eat her heart away.
Yet she never blamed him:—
One day you shall know How this sorrow happened;
It was long ago.
I have read the letter:
Many a weary year,
There are thousands here.
If she could but hear it,
Could but understand; See—I put the letter
In her cold white hand.
Even these words, so longed for,
Do not stir her rest;
For God judges best,