The Old Psalm Tune

YOU asked, dear friend, the other day,Why still my charméd earRejoiceth in uncultured toneThat old psalm tune to hear?

I've heard full oft, in foreign lands,The grand orchestral strain,Where music's ancient masters live,Revealed on earth again,--

Where breathing, solemn instruments,In swaying clouds of sound,Bore up the yearning, trancéd soul,Like silver wings around;--

I've heard in old St. Peter's dome,Where clouds of incense rise,Most ravishing the choral swellMount upwards to the skies.

And well I feel the magic power,When skilled and cultured artIts cunning webs of sweetness weavesAround the captured heart.

But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung,That old psalm tune hath stillA pulse of power beyond them allMy inmost soul to thrill.

Those halting tones that sound to you,Are not the tones I hear;But voices of the loved and lostThere meet my longing ear.

I hear my angel mother's voice,--Those were the words she sung;I hear my brother's ringing tones,As once on earth they rung;

And friends that walk in white aboveCome round me like a cloud,And far above those earthly notesTheir singing sounds aloud.

There may be discord, as you say;Those voices poorly ring;But there's no discord in the strainThose upper spirits sing.

For they who sing are of the blest,The calm and glorified,Whose hours are one eternal restOn heaven's sweet floating tide.

Their life is music and accord;Their souls and hearts keep timeIn one sweet concert with the Lord,--One concert vast, sublime.

And through the hymns they sang on earthSometimes a sweetness fallsOn those they loved and left below,And softly homeward calls,--

Bells from our own dear fatherland,Borne trembling o'er the sea,--The narrow sea that they have crossed,The shores where we shall be.

O sing, sing on, beloved souls!Sing cares and griefs to rest;Sing, till entrancéd we ariseTo join you 'mong the blest.