St. Augustine's Holiday and Other Poems By William Alexander |
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DEATH OF LORD J. G. BERESFORD, PRIMATE OF ALL IRELAND.
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 | St. Augustine's Holiday and Other Poems |  |
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DEATH OF LORD J. G. BERESFORD, PRIMATE OF ALL IRELAND.
To his rest among the saints of old
That our stately Primate must be laid,
In an ever hallow'd mould,
That the good Archbishop sleepeth well,
Tongue and pen unto the people tell;
Drape the great cathedral where he pray'd,
Let the bell be toll'd.
That our stately Primate must be laid,
In an ever hallow'd mould,
That the good Archbishop sleepeth well,
Tongue and pen unto the people tell;
Drape the great cathedral where he pray'd,
Let the bell be toll'd.
Not for marvellous speech or musings grand,
Not for martyr's pains! Those noble eyes
Open'd on a golden land;
With him beauty, honour, wealth, and power
Grew like hue and fragrance with the flower;
Stormless, all in sunshine did he rise
And in sunshine stand.
Not for martyr's pains! Those noble eyes
Open'd on a golden land;
With him beauty, honour, wealth, and power
Grew like hue and fragrance with the flower;
Stormless, all in sunshine did he rise
And in sunshine stand.
Taylor, round the altar twining roses,
Colour'd by the summer of his touch;
Ken, his music who discloses,
Half by angels, half by thrushes taught;
Butler's regal majesty of thought,—
Ireland's princely Primate had not such:
Weep where he reposes.
Colour'd by the summer of his touch;
Ken, his music who discloses,
Half by angels, half by thrushes taught;
Butler's regal majesty of thought,—
Ireland's princely Primate had not such:
Weep where he reposes.
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Ay, whilst now the white sail of his soul
Watch we glimmering round death's misty cape,
Slowly let the organ roll!
From our clouded hearts let raindrops fall
To the soft breath of the ritual;
Solemnly the old cathedral drape,
Let the church bells toll!
Watch we glimmering round death's misty cape,
Slowly let the organ roll!
From our clouded hearts let raindrops fall
To the soft breath of the ritual;
Solemnly the old cathedral drape,
Let the church bells toll!
Strong is eloquence, and lore is deep—
But for kingly quiet so sustain'd
That it seem'd a saintly sleep,
For the lore that was so simply wise,
For the lordly presence and calm eyes,
For the love and purity unfeign'd,
Let the people weep.
But for kingly quiet so sustain'd
That it seem'd a saintly sleep,
For the lore that was so simply wise,
For the lordly presence and calm eyes,
For the love and purity unfeign'd,
Let the people weep.
Not by fourteen thousand bits of gold
Measured, but by books at Resurrection
Of the perfect just unroll'd,
Ah! it must have been a weary weight,
Fifty years of such a high estate—
Well! he need not fear the recollection,—
Let the bell be toll'd.
Measured, but by books at Resurrection
Of the perfect just unroll'd,
Ah! it must have been a weary weight,
Fifty years of such a high estate—
Well! he need not fear the recollection,—
Let the bell be toll'd.
Ah! the great bell tolleth—there blow never
Twice the self-same flowers, but other ones;
Flows not twice the self-same river.
All that majesty of prayers and alms,
All that sweetness as of chanted psalms
Round the brow half princely, half St. John's,
It is gone for ever.
Twice the self-same flowers, but other ones;
Flows not twice the self-same river.
All that majesty of prayers and alms,
All that sweetness as of chanted psalms
Round the brow half princely, half St. John's,
It is gone for ever.
Ah! the great bell tolls, but through the cloud,
If we see aright, and through the mist,
Larger eyed and broader brow'd,
With his stainless lawn divinely brighter,
With a crown and not a heavy mitre,
In the full cathedral fane of Christ
Is the Archbishop bow'd.
If we see aright, and through the mist,
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With his stainless lawn divinely brighter,
With a crown and not a heavy mitre,
In the full cathedral fane of Christ
Is the Archbishop bow'd.
Leave him with the Bishop of our souls,
Leave the princely old man with the bless'd;
Need is none of Fame's false scrolls:
Calm is on his brow from God's own climate,
Softly draw the curtain round our Primate,
Let the angels sing him to his rest,—
Ah! the great bell tolls!
Leave the princely old man with the bless'd;
Need is none of Fame's false scrolls:
Calm is on his brow from God's own climate,
Softly draw the curtain round our Primate,
Let the angels sing him to his rest,—
Ah! the great bell tolls!
July 26, 1862.
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