DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP
WHATELY.

RICHARD WHATELY, D.D., BORN 1787, DIED 1863.

FAST falls the October rain, and dull and leaden Stretch the low skies, without one line of blue; And up the desolate streets, with sobs that deaden The rolling wheels, the winds come rolling too.

Faster than rain fall teardrops, bells are tolling;
The dark sky suits the melancholy heart;
From the church organs awfully is rolling
Down the draped fanes, the requiem of Mozart.

O tears beyond control of half a nation,

O sorrowful music, what have ye to say?

Why take men up so deep a lamentation?

What prince or great man hath there fall'n to-day?

Only an old Archbishop, growing whiter

Year after year, his stature proud and tall, Palsied and bow'd, as by his heavy mitre; Only an old Archbishop-that is all!

Only the hands that held with feeble shiver
The marvellous pen-by others outstretch'd o'er
The children's heads-are folded now for ever

In an eternal quiet-nothing more!

No martyr he, o'er fire and sword victorious;
No saint in silent rapture kneeling on ;
No mighty orator with voice so glorious

That thousands sigh when that sweet voice is gone.

Yet in Heaven's great cathedral, peradventure,
There are crowns rich above the rest, with green
Places of joy peculiar where they enter

Whose fires and swords no eye hath ever seen.

They who have known the truth, the truth have spoken
With few to understand and few to praise,
Casting their bread on waters, half heart-broken,
For men to find it after many days.

And better far than eloquence-that golden

And spangled juggler dear to thoughtless youth— The luminous style through which there is beholden The honest beauty of the face of Truth.

And better than his loftiness of station,
His power of logic, or his pen of gold,

The half unwilling homage of a nation

Of fierce extremes to one who seem'd so cold;

The purity by private ends unblotted,

The love that slowly came with time and tears, The honourable age, the life unspotted,

That is not measured merely by its years.

And better far than flowers that blow and perish
Some sunny week the roots deep laid in mould

Of quickening thoughts, which long blue summers cherish,
Long after he who planted them is cold.

Yea, there be saints who are not like the painted
And haloed figures fix'd upon the pane,
Not outwardly, and visibly ensainted,

But hiding deep the light which they contain.

The rugged gentleness, the wit whose glory
Flash'd like a sword because its edge was keen,
The fine antithesis, the flowing story,

Beneath such things the sainthood is not seen,

Till in the hours when the wan hand is lifted

To take the bread and wine, through all the mist Of mortal weariness our eyes are gifted

To see a quiet radiance caught from Christ;

Till from the pillow of the thinker, lying

In weakness, comes the teaching then best taught; That the true crown for any soul in dying

Is Christ not genius, and is faith not thought.

O wondrous lights of death, the great unveiler,

Lights that come out above the shadowy place, Just as the night, that makes our small world paler, Shows us the star-sown amplitudes of space!

Rest then, O martyr, pass'd from anguish mortal;
Rest then, O saint, sublimely free from doubt;

Rest then, O patient thinker, o'er the portal,
Where there is peace for brave hearts wearied out.

O long unrecognized, thy love too loving,

Too wise thy wisdom, and thy truth too free!

As on the searchers after truth are moving,

They may look backward with deep thanks to thee.

By his dear Master's holiness made holy

All lights of hope upon that forehead broad, Ye mourning thousands quit the Minster slowly, And leave the great Archbishop with his God.

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.

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.

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.