University of Virginia Library

The doors are open in the house of prayer,
The morning worshippers are kneeling there
In supplicating harmony, beneath
The intoning organ's incense-bearing breath,
That aids their hymning voices, and around
Moves in the might and majesty of sound.
The pages of the Holy Book are read,
The solemn blessing of the Priest is said,
Departing footsteps gently press the floor,
And silence seals and guards the consecrated door.
Along his homeward pathway, lingering slow,
His dark weeds tokening a mourner's woe,
The Gospel-Teacher comes. The path inclines
His steps beside the cradle-bower of vines
Where sleeps the boy. A moment's mute surprise,
And the mazed mourner greets, with grateful eyes,
The enlivening presence of that cherub face,
Delighted in its loveliness to trace
The memorial beauty of his own lost boy,
A blossomed bud, death-doomed, in its spring-time of joy;
And says, in whispers, “Would that I might wake,
And woo, and win him, for his soul's sweet sake,
To make my home his cloister, and entwine
All his life's hopes and happiness with mine.
And with him win, dear daughter of the sky!
Handmaid of Heaven! immortal Piety!
Thy visitings, and joy to see thee bring
In sisterly embrace, wing folding wing,
Meek Faith, sweet Hope, and Charity divine,
With thee to consecrate that home a shrine
Among the holiest where the adorer kneels,
Listening the coming of thy chariot-wheels.
Then the gay sportive dreams, enwreathing now
Their frolic fancies round the slumberer's brow,
Should yield to dreams of angels entering in
His young heart's Eden, unprofaned by sin;
Then should his pleasant couch of leaves and flowers
Yield willing homage to the bliss of bowers
More beautiful than hers, and only given
In visions of the scenery of heaven;
Then should the music now around him heard,
The wind-harp's song, the song of bee and bird,
Yield to thy chorused carollings sublime,
And sky-endomed cathedral's chant and chime.

And then the longing of his life should be
To praise, to love, to worship thine and thee,
And when, my pastoral task of duty done,
I rest beneath the cold sepulchral stone,
Be his the delegated power to grace,
In surpliced sanctity, thy Altar-place;
To feed thy chosen flock with heavenly food,
Be their kind Shepherd, gentle, generous, good,
And, in the language of the Minstrel's lay,
“Lure them to brighter worlds, and lead the way.”

Hark! a bugle's echo comes,
Hark! a fife is singing,
Hark! the roll of far-off drums
Through the air is ringing!
The mourner turns—looks—listens, and is gone,
In quiet heedlessness the Boy sleeps on.