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EATED one day at the Organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then;

But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight
Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,

And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;

It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.


It linked all perplexed meanings

Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence

As if it were loth to cease.

1 have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,

Which came from the soul of the Organ,
And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again,—

It may be that only in Heaven
I shall hear that grand Amen.



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
On the wan, worn features

Of the still white face.

Restless, helpless, hopeless, Was her bitter part;—
Now—how still the Violets Lie upon her Heart!

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,
To see her just look happy
Once before she died!

They strove hard to please her,
But, when death is near,

All you know is deadened,
Hope, and joy, and fear.

And besides, one sorrow
Deeper still—one pain

Was beyond them: healing
Came to-day—in vain!

If she had but lingered
Just a few hours more;

Or had this letter reached her
Just one day before!

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,
For one word she hungered—

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;
Well—I should not murmur,

For God judges best,

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