THE TUNER AND THE TUNING.
By William Luff
I STOOD by the old church porches,
By the old-time sleeping dead;
And I heard the tuner tuning
The organ overhead;
And the notes seemed oft repeated,
As he touched the mournful thing—
There was neither hymn nor anthem
That choir could chant or sing. But I listened in the silence,
Where the yew trees cast their shade,
Till the reeds had had their testing,
And the final chord was played.
Then it seemed in satisfaction
That the tuner ran then o'er,
To see what strains of music
The perfect notes could pour. I stand to-day in the porches
Of the living Church divine;
And I hear the Master Tuner
Till I almost half repine;
For the notes seem long repeated,
And come with mournful wing—
There was neither hymn nor anthem
That choir can chant or sing. I stand to-day in the porches
Of my own small temple heart,
And I hear the Master tuning
And adjusting every part;
I will rest with hopeful patience,
Till, perfect beneath his hand,
He wakens on earth the prelude
Of the praise in the better land. —Jenness Miller Illustrated Monthly.