The gold leaf. [volume] (Henderson, N.C.) 1881-1911, 1899-02-02
THE LOST CHORD.
A TENDER AND TOUCHING STORY
OF A FAr1U-IAR HYMN


SorrOwed and Suffered "Nearer
Ny God, to- Thee"-We Cannot
Always Tell What Hearts Are Being
Comforted When We Are Lovingly
Doing Our r.Duty-Powersin a Song,
Kindly Word. a Warm HandcIasp.
civilian Stanton, in Christian Standard.
The poet was weary. A week before
his lovely wife had passed away. In a
quiet spot on the mountain side,
where the manytinted autumn leaves
formed Il covering, and the waving
pines sang her requiem, there they
laid her.
And to-day the poet had returned.
All day long he sat in his study,
but the fancics would not come as in
the days when she he loved was at
his side. The imagery Of the mind
seemed commonplace. He delved
deep into the mystic legends and
folklore of the ancients, but it did
not satisfy him. He tried to recall
visions OF the sunrise upon the hills,
and the shimmering moon in the
silvery lake, or the majestic booming
Of Heavens artillery, when the
lightning flashes and the thunder
god strikes forth upon the inky clouds
but all in vain.
At last, after the sun had gone to
rest in his Western couch of red and
gold, and the star-spangled curtain
of the night silently covered the
busy earth, he went forth to find
relief and rest, Along the busy
marts Of trade, through shady ave-
nues and where the river flowed black
and still, he wandered. The hours
| rolled by. and he found himself at
length before music hall. The sounds
Of applause from within attracted his
attention and glancing at the bill
board, he read that celebrated
violinst was to appear that night,
He entered and found that the player
had just re-appeared in response to
the plaudit of the audience. He stood
before them moment. his fingers
lovingly caressin9 the strings of his
instrument.
At first low and sweet the strains
came, like the distant murmuring of
silvery cataracts. or the notes of the
nightingale borne on summers
evening air: Nearer my God, to
Thee" 1t seemed as though the in
| strumcnt, under the masters hand,
was really speaking the words. but in
a voice so sweet and strange, that the
soul of the poet seemed to rise and
fall with the swelling of the music.
| N nI tn l.,
that he had known long ago. Strange
that he should have forgotten them.
Visions Of childhood and mother;
the old cottage with the honeysuckle
about the porch; the river gliding by.
All. YES, the fancies came swifter
now. For the time he almost forgot
his sorrow. He almost forgot the
| music. But the tones have swelled
to a joyous key. '.Still all my song
it seemed to say. and the music flows
forth like the wild, glad strains of
the birds when springtime comes and
the sleeping flowers come forth. The
instrument alive, so joyous and glad
and free did the melody come. The
poet sat entranced. He did not see
the player; he did not see him bending
near his instrument, and see his
fingers sweep over the strings; he did
not see that the master himself was
lost in the joyous burst of song.
Only the music he heard, and as the
all his being thrilled and tingled with
the magic ecstacy of the sweet re-
frain, he was borne upward and away
from himself. Nearer my God. to
Thee"
But the song has changed. Soft
and low the violin speaks again, but
now it is like the rich trembling of a
harp-string-a sweet, soothing strain,
as though it were a note of sadness
tempered by sublime trust in a
higher power. $50 bury thy sor-
row." the instrument seemed now to
say. The poet was himself once
more. and though he felt sad as he
thought Of her he loved, yet this
sadness seemed something that could
be borne, since he felt, Nearer my
God, to Thee, even though it had
been .'cross' that had raised him
The melody rose and fell like the
pillows of the sea. He fancied he
could hear the pines singing their
requiem on the mountain-side. And
then. as the player seemed to throw
his whole soul into the music, it
sounded like the tinkllng of silvery
bells, or the splashing of crystal
waters over pebbles of gold, blend
ing the music of man and bird, the
beauty of every flower and tree. the
glory of the moonlight, starlight and
sunlight, the whispers of all the
fairy zephyrs of the South as the
closing strain of the instrument
seemed to say: Go tell it to Jesus,
all will be right" He wished to sit
there and feast upon the melody to
which he had just listened. He went
out into the night again, and as he
looked at the stars, he thought they
were brighter; the low, descending
moon seemed to be shedding softer
radiance as if in sympathy. He had
found relief and rest.
The player had fulfilled his mission.
His master-hand had called forth
strains which had soothed a troubled
spirit and healed wounded heart.
He did not know? All, no; we may
not always tell what hearts are being
comforted when we are earnestly and