Beecher

So, Beecher's dead. His was a great soul, too Great as a giant organ is, whose reeds Hold in them all the souls of all the creeds That man has ever taught and never knew. When on this mighty instrument He laid His hand Who fashioned it, our common moan Was suppliant in its thundering. The tone Grew more vivacious when the Devil played. No more those luring harmonies we hear, And lo! already men forget the sound. They turn, retracing all the dubious ground O'er which it led them, pigwise, by the ear.