So, Beecher’s dead. His was
a great soul, too—
Great as a giant organ is,
whose reeds
Hold in them all the souls
of all the creeds
That man has ever taught and never knew.
When on this mighty instrument He laid
His hand Who fashioned it,
our common moan
Was suppliant in its thundering.
The tone
Grew more vivacious when the Devil played.
No more those luring harmonies we hear,
And lo! already men forget
the sound.
They turn, retracing all the
dubious ground
O’er which it led them, pigwise,
by the ear.
NOT GUILTY.
“I saw your charms in another’s
arms,”
Said a Grecian swain with
his blood a-boil;
“And he kissed you fair as he held
you there,
A willing bird in a serpent’s
coil!”
The maid looked up from the cinctured
cup
Wherein she was crushing the
berries red,
Pain and surprise in her honest eyes—
“It was only one o’
those gods,” she said.
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