Where softly steal fantastic shadows grim
O'er bannered wall, limned saint, prone effigies,
And time-etched brass, sleeps, dust-choked, mute as these,
The Voice that stirred the Minster's arches dim.
With master-touch, obedient fingers skim
In eager joyance o'er the yielding keys,
And the groined vault is filled with harmonies
That soar and swell in grand, triumphant hymn.
Thus some great soul, cloistered amid the gloom
And shades of prisoning shell, in silence waits
The word inbreathed that shall to the dumb clod
Give speech. As wingèd spirit from its tomb
His message flies-nathless the erst-barred gates-
And, hushed, men whisper: 'Hark! the voice of God!'