THE ARTIST'S TOUCH.
Under the artist's flying hands
The white keys rise, the white keys fall;
Now sudden sweet, now trumpet loud,
Above the heads in silence bowed,
The brave chords fill the listening hall.
The white keys rise, the white keys fall;
Now sudden sweet, now trumpet loud,
Above the heads in silence bowed,
The brave chords fill the listening hall.
But if the touch be low and soft,
Or if he strike with flame and fire,
Through all the changes deftly rung,
The soul of music finds a tongue
To lift its message high and higher;
Or if he strike with flame and fire,
Through all the changes deftly rung,
The soul of music finds a tongue
To lift its message high and higher;
For major chord and minor note
Not of themselves the tones prolong;
But as the rent and broken seals
Through which the master's soul reveals
His radiant thought embalmed in song.
Not of themselves the tones prolong;
But as the rent and broken seals
Through which the master's soul reveals
His radiant thought embalmed in song.
Dear Lord! Thine instruments are we;
Under thy hands we wait alone!
Under thy hands we wait alone!
