 | Pocahontas, and other poems |  |
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THE AGED BISHOP.
They cluster'd round, that listening throng,
The parting hour drew nigh,
And heighten'd feeling, deep and strong,
Spoke forth from eye to eye;
The parting hour drew nigh,
And heighten'd feeling, deep and strong,
Spoke forth from eye to eye;
For reverend in his hoary years,
A white-robed prelate bent,
And trembling pathos wing'd his words,
As to the heart they went.
A white-robed prelate bent,
And trembling pathos wing'd his words,
As to the heart they went.
With saintly love he urged the crowd
Salvation's hope to gain,
While, gathering o'er his furrow'd cheek,
The tears fell down like rain;
Salvation's hope to gain,
While, gathering o'er his furrow'd cheek,
The tears fell down like rain;
He waved his hand, and music woke
A warm and solemn strain,
His favourite hymn swell'd high, and fill'd
The consecrated fane.
A warm and solemn strain,
His favourite hymn swell'd high, and fill'd
The consecrated fane.
Then from the hallow'd chancel forth,
With faltering step, he sped,
And fervent laid a father's hand
On every priestly head,
With faltering step, he sped,
And fervent laid a father's hand
On every priestly head,
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And breathed the blessing of his God.
And, full of meekness, said,
“Be faithful in your Master's work
When your old bishop's dead.
And, full of meekness, said,
“Be faithful in your Master's work
When your old bishop's dead.
“For more than fifty years, my sons,
A Saviour's love supreme
Unto a sinful world, hath been
My unexhausted theme;
A Saviour's love supreme
Unto a sinful world, hath been
My unexhausted theme;
“Now, see, the blossoms of the grave
Are o'er my temples spread,
Oh! lead the seeking soul to Him
When your old bishop's dead.”
Are o'er my temples spread,
Oh! lead the seeking soul to Him
When your old bishop's dead.”
Far waned the holy Sabbath-eve
On toward the midnight hour,
Before the spellbound throng retired
To slumber's soothing power;
On toward the midnight hour,
Before the spellbound throng retired
To slumber's soothing power;
Yet many a sleeper, mid his dream,
Beheld in snowy stole
That patriarch-prelate's bending form,
Whose accents stirr'd the soul.
Beheld in snowy stole
That patriarch-prelate's bending form,
Whose accents stirr'd the soul.
In smiles the summer morn arose,
And many a grateful guest,
Forth from those hospitable domes,
With tender memories, press'd,
And many a grateful guest,
Forth from those hospitable domes,
With tender memories, press'd,
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While o'er the broad and branching bay,
Which like a heart doth pour
A living tide, in countless streams,
Through fair Virginia's shore,
Which like a heart doth pour
A living tide, in countless streams,
Through fair Virginia's shore,
O'er Rappahannock's fringed breast,
O'er rich Potomac's tide,
Or where the bold, resistless James
Rolls on, with monarch-pride,
O'er rich Potomac's tide,
Or where the bold, resistless James
Rolls on, with monarch-pride,
The boats that ask nor sail nor oar,
With speed majestic glide,
And many a thoughtful pastor leans
In silence o'er their side,
With speed majestic glide,
And many a thoughtful pastor leans
In silence o'er their side,
And, while he seems to scan the flood
In silver 'neath him spread,
Revolves the charge, “Be strong for God
When your old bishop's dead.”
In silver 'neath him spread,
Revolves the charge, “Be strong for God
When your old bishop's dead.”
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