 | [Funeral ode, in] The poets and poetry of Buffalo |  |
239
FUNERAL ODE
Suggested by the departure of Bishop Timon.
Servant of God! well done!
The heavenly palm-branch and the crown of gold
By thee were nobly won;
And the Good Shepherd to his starry fold
Hath gathered a great leader of the flock,
Faith-founded on the Everlasting Rock.
The heavenly palm-branch and the crown of gold
By thee were nobly won;
And the Good Shepherd to his starry fold
Hath gathered a great leader of the flock,
Faith-founded on the Everlasting Rock.
The chime of funeral bells
And wailing dirge-notes for the sainted dead
Thrilled to their inmost cells
The stricken Army of the Cross he led,
Until an angel, through the darkness, cried—
“Good Bishop, lay thy rod and staff aside!”
And wailing dirge-notes for the sainted dead
Thrilled to their inmost cells
The stricken Army of the Cross he led,
Until an angel, through the darkness, cried—
“Good Bishop, lay thy rod and staff aside!”
Away with useless tears,
Though gone another planter of the Vine—
His grave-couch is a shrine,
And like a tropic winter were the years
Of his majestical and calm decline.
Episcopal authority became
One who could temper dignity with love,
And strove to find his rich reward above,
Indifferent to the dazzling gauds of fame,
Poor mortal praise or blame.
Though gone another planter of the Vine—
His grave-couch is a shrine,
And like a tropic winter were the years
Of his majestical and calm decline.
Episcopal authority became
One who could temper dignity with love,
And strove to find his rich reward above,
Indifferent to the dazzling gauds of fame,
Poor mortal praise or blame.
240
Meek follower of a Master undefiled!
His charity o'erstepped the bounds of creed,
And artless in his nature as a child,
His lucid thoughts matured to holy deed.
Ah! though our hearts are with devotion stirred
By melting accents from his tongue no more,
While the blue waves of Erie kiss the shore
His honored name will be a household word;
Lips, touched with fire, are mute,
And shades of night are on his coffin thrown,
But seed that he hath sown
Is ripening in sad hearts to precious fruit.
His charity o'erstepped the bounds of creed,
And artless in his nature as a child,
His lucid thoughts matured to holy deed.
Ah! though our hearts are with devotion stirred
By melting accents from his tongue no more,
While the blue waves of Erie kiss the shore
His honored name will be a household word;
Lips, touched with fire, are mute,
And shades of night are on his coffin thrown,
But seed that he hath sown
Is ripening in sad hearts to precious fruit.
Oh! not unmeet are types of outward woe,
The chanted requiem, and imposing rites,
When, one by one, go out the guiding lights
That cheered our paths below.
In sympathy capricious April seems
With weeping thousands bitterly bereaved;
Flow on with sadder melody the streams,
And wails the fitful blast like one who grieved.
Far from the frost that kills,
The blight that withers on this finite shore,
Gone is our friend to summer on the hills
Of God forevermore.
The chanted requiem, and imposing rites,
When, one by one, go out the guiding lights
That cheered our paths below.
In sympathy capricious April seems
With weeping thousands bitterly bereaved;
Flow on with sadder melody the streams,
And wails the fitful blast like one who grieved.
Far from the frost that kills,
The blight that withers on this finite shore,
Gone is our friend to summer on the hills
Of God forevermore.
Avon, April 23, 1867.
| [Funeral ode, in] The poets and poetry of Buffalo | |