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 Strong is eloquence, and lore is deep- That it seem'd a saintly sleep, Not by fourteen thousand bits of gold Ah! it must have been a weary weight, Well! he need not fear the recollection,- 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, Ah! the great bell tolls, but through the cloud, If we see aright, and through the mist, Larger eyed and broader brow'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! July 26, 1862. DEATH OF S. WILBERFORCE, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER. How thin the veil between our eyes, They rode by sunlit copse and glen A plunge-a fall—and lo! the rock. How swift the change, how sharp the shock, Old England heard it with a start ; She mourns with voice uplifted: Mother of many a noble heart, From his own Oxford's storied hall, The whole land wears the garb of grief For that great wealth departedHer peerless prelate, statesman, chief, Large soul'd and gentle hearted; The man so eloquent of word, Who won rude natures at his will, And charm'd them with the glamour Of his sweet tongue, and kept them still Forgetful of their clamour; Who from no task for Christ soe'er, To him it wore so grand an air, Who sweetly smiled, and deftly plann'd, Like hammers in a skilful hand, Whom men call'd subtle overmuch And from their hundred varying dyes Wove well a wondrous colour, That might have pleased malignant eyes More, if it had been duller; He for whom many hearts are sore, The village church, where children knelt The Senate, barren evermore Of the rich voice that stirr'd it,— The platform, where the charm is o'er That spell-bound all who heard it. How many a noble deed he plann'd ! And when the social lists were lit, Sleep calm in earth, a Bishop robed, Let love draw near, and hope and faith, His white face beautiful in death, WILLIAM DERRY, C. F. ALEXANDER. |