Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play, And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.
He was young, the Organ-Builder, and o’er all the land his fame Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame.
All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled, By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.
So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set: Happy day—the brightest jewel in the glad year’s coronet!
But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride— Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.
“Ah!” thought he, “how great a master am I! When the organ plays, How the vast cathedral arches will re-echo with my praise!”
Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar, With its every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.
But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer, For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there.
All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest’s low monotone, And the bride’s robe trailing softly o’er the floor of fretted stone.
Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim?