Classic Poem

The robed priest, the necromantic table,
The kneeling crowd, rapt bosoms, eyes ecstatic;
The rattled beads, the prayers — a mutter'd Babel —
And pageantry dramatic!

What keen religious eyes do they inherit,
That thro' these blinding forms can see the Father,
Whilst I must vainly strain my troubled spirit
One trace of Him to gather!

But, as I sat in trouble, gazed in wonder,
The heavy air by sudden strains was riven —
The organ roll'd a peal of sweetest thunder —
And God spoke out of Heaven.

For, smother as we may with forms erroneous,
And textual complications of a trinity,
The unconscious instrument, with lips harmonious,
Interprets the Divinity.