The Wind Is Now Thy Organist; A Clank (We Know Not Whence) Ministers For A Bell To Mark Some Change Of Service. As The Swell Of Music Reached Its Height, And Even When Sank The Notes, In Prelude, Roslin! To A Blank Of Silence, How It Thrilled Thy Sumptuous Roof, Pillars, And Arches, Not In Vain Time-Proof, Though Christian Rites Be Wanting! From What Bank Came Those Live Herbs? By What Hand Were They Sown Where Dew Falls Not, Where Rain-Drops Seem Unknown? Yet In The Temple They A Friendly Niche Share With Their Sculptured Fellows, That, Green-Grown, Copy Their Beauty More And More, And Preach, Though Mute, Of All Things Blending Into One.