The Old Organist.

The Old Organist.
319.6

The morning services were o’er.
And yet the people stayed.
While some remarked how wondrous well
The old professor played.

His muste filled the village church
Somehow as ne’er before:
And c’en the choir were loath to go,
Put lingered at the door.

The player seemed unconscious, too,
Of all the listening throng.
And hands. In untaon with soul.
Poured forth a rapturous song.

His white head bent above the keys,
His form swayed to and fro
The music swelled out loud and clear.
And then fell sweet and low.

His eyes were raised, his thin lips moved,
And yet there came no sound;
The angels just above the blue.
Must certainly have heard.

They knew within the old man’s heart
Were praises deep and loud:
That twas a hynn of thankfulness
Went up above the crowd.

On, on, he played, unheeding still,
Until there came at inst
A look of peace upon his face,
Which had been overcast.

The past was wholly blotted out.
The present was his own: future held
The fu bright heaven in store,
“Twas there his soul had flown.

The music ceased no quietly.
The people did not know
The good old organist had died
While they paused there below.

His hands lny lifeices on the keyse,
Closed were his weary eyes,
“And on his upturned wondering face
A look of glad surprise.