THE ORGANIST.

Grave and serene, though young at heart, "The Doctor," so his boys address him, And rightly, since his healing art Has made full many a mourner bless him— For close on twenty years has served An ancient church renowned in story, And never in his teaching swerved From studying God's greater glory. His choir, like every singing school, By turns angelic and demonic, Are quick to recognise a rule That is both "dominant" and "tonic;" For contact with so rare a mind Has seldom failed to spur and raise them, And when they shirk their needful grind With just rebuke he turns and flays them. Withal he knows that human boys Are dulled by industry unending, And unreservedly enjoys Himself at seasons of unbending; A diet of perpetual Psalms Is only fit for saints and Dantes, And so he varies Bach and Brahms With simple tunes and rousing chanties. His taste is catholic and sane; He does not treat as worthless lumber All Mendelssohn, or Spohr disdain, Or let the works of Handel slumber; He likes to keep Church music clear From operatic frills and ribbons, And never ceases to revere Tallis and Purcell, Byrd and Gibbons. And thus he wisely neither aims At showing off his erudition, Nor for his choir and organ claims A prima donna-like position; He sees no virtue in mere speed, With sentiment he scorns to palter, And gives his most especial heed To the clear chanting of the Psalter. He loves his organ far too well To be o'er-lavish with its thunder, Yet wields at will the magic spell That moves our hearts to awe or wonder; Three centuries have lent its keys All that consoles, inspires, rejoices, And with a calm consummate ease He blends the new and ancient voices. And in these days when mothers mourn, When joy is fled and faith is shaken, When age survives bereft, forlorn, And youth before its prime is taken, He draws from music's soul divine A double magic, gently pleading With grief its passion to resign And happy warriors vanward speeding. The hurrying years their changes bring; New-comers fill the singers' benches; And many whom he taught to sing To-day are fighting in the trenches; But howsoe'er their sun shall set, They'll face or glory or disaster More nobly for the lifelong debt They owe to their beloved master.