Immortality

Written after listening to the Organ Tempest of Lucerne.

EASTER

We came to fair Lucerne at even, —
How beauteous was the scene!
The snowy Alps, like walls of heaven,
Rose o'er the Alps of green;
The damask sky a roseate light
Flashed on the Lake, and low
Above Mt. Pilate's shadowy height
Night bent her silver bow.

We turned towards the faded fane,
How many centuries old!
And entered as the organ's strain
Along the arches rolled;
Such as when guardian spirits bear
A soul to realms of light,
And melts in the immortal air
The anthem of their flight:

Then followed strains so sweet,
So sadly sweet and low.
Thai they seemed like memory's music,
And the chords of long ago.
A light wind seemed to rise;
A deep gust followed soon,
As when a dark cloud flies
Across the sun, at noon.

It filled the aisles, — each drew
His garments round his form;
We could not feel the wind that blew,
But only hear the storm.
Then we cast a curious eye
Towards the window's lights,
And saw the Lake serenely lie
Beneath the crystal heights.

Fair rose the Alps of white
Above the Alps of green;
The slopes lay bright in the sun of night,
And the peaks in the sun unseen.
A deep sound shook the air,
As when the tempest breaks
Upon the peaks, while sunshine fair
Is dreaming in the lakes.

Then like a fateful wing-
There rose a wind so drear,
Its troubled spirit seemed to bring
The shades of darkness near.
We looked towards the windows old:
Calm was the eve of June;
On the summits shone the twilight's gold,
And on Pilate shone the moon.

A sharp note's lightning flash
Upturned the startled face;
When a mighty thunder-crash
With horror filled the place!
From arch to arch the peal
Was echoed loud and long-
Then o'er the pathway seemed to steal
Another seraph's song;
 
And 'mid the thunder's crash
And the song's enraptured flow,
We still could hear, with charmed ear,
The organ playing low.
As passed the thunder-peal,
Came raindrops, falling near,
A rain one could not feel,
A rain that smote the ear.
And we turned to look again
Towards the mountain wall,
When a deep tone shook the fane,
Like the avalanche's fall.
Loud piped the wind, fast poured the rain,
The very earth seemed riven,
And wildly flashed, and yet again,
The smiting fires of heaven.

And cheeks that wore the light of smiles
When slowly rose the gale,
Like pulseless statues lined the aisles
And, as forms of marble, pale.
The organ's undertones
Still sounded sweet and low,
And the calm of a more than mortal trust
With the rhythms seemed to flow.

The Master's mirrored face
Was lilted from the keys,
As if more holy was the place
As he touched the notes of peace.
Then the sympathetic reeds
The sweet enchantment wrought,
As the senses met the needs
And the touch of human thought.

The organ whispered sweet,
The organ whispered low,
"Fear not, God's love is with thee,
Though tempests round thee blow!"
And the soul's grand power 't was ours to trace,
And its deathless hopes discern,
As we gazed that night on the living face
Of the Organ of Lucerne.

Then from the church it passed,
That strange and ghostly storm,
And a parting beam the twilight cast
Through the windows, bright and warm.
The music grew more clear,
Our gladdened pulses swaying,
When Alpine horns we seemed to hear
On all the hillsides playing.

We left the church: how fair
Stole on the eve of June!
Cool Righi in the dusky air.
The low-descending moon!
No breath the lake cerulean stirred;
No cloud could eye discern;
The Alps were silent: we had heard
The Organ of Lucerne.

Soon passed the night: the high peaks shone
A wall of glass and fire,
And Morning, from her summer zone,
Illumined tower and spire;
I walked beside the lake again,
Along the Alpine meadows;
Then sought the old melodious fane
Beneath the Righi's shadows.
The organ, spanned by arches quaint.
Rose silent, cold, and bare,
Like the pulseless tomb of a vanished saint: —
The Master was not there!
But the soul's grand power 'twas mine to trace
And its deathless hopes discern.
As I gazed that morn on the still, dead face
Of the Organ of Lucerne.