Benjamin Penhallow Shillaber (1814–1890)

O, DEARLY do I love the organ’s pealing,

With psalm-tune holy or with anthem grand,

The while I drum the measure with my hand,

And gaze devoutly at the frescoed ceiling

Where modern Angelos have spent their skill,

And mimic niche and pillar make display,

And shadows fling themselves in every way,

In independence of the sun’s high will.

I love to hear the voice and organ blending,

And pouring on the air a cloud of sound,

Until, as with a spell, my soul is bound,

And every faculty is heavenward tending.

Bang goes a cricket! Squalls a child, sonorous;

And earth’s harsh discord drowns the heavenly chorus!