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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,
And angel wings in motion!
How narrow the long ledge that lies
'Twixt us and death's dim ocean !

They rode by sunlit copse and glen
And 'neath the woodland's shadow
They spurn'd, with hoofs that rang again,
The cruel sloping meadow.

A plunge-a fall—and lo! the rock.
The veil was rent asunder.

How swift the change, how sharp the shock,
How bright the waking yonder!

Old England heard it with a start ;

She mourns with voice uplifted:

Mother of many a noble heart,
But ah! what son so gifted?

From his own Oxford's storied hall,
Her stream by light oars ruffled,
To where, beside the plane-trees tall,
His Winton's bells are muffled,

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 sway'd all spirits near him,
Who did but touch the silver chord,
And men perforce must hear him ;

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,
True soldier, sought indulgence,—

To him it wore so grand an air,
Was lit with such effulgence;

Who sweetly smiled, and deftly plann'd,
And his true work to fashion,

Like hammers in a skilful hand,
Took every party's passion;

Whom men call'd subtle overmuch
Because all threads of beauty
He interwork'd with magic touch
Into the web of Duty,

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,
Lost to so many places-
The great cathedral's crowded floor
A hush of upturn'd faces,-

The village church, where children knelt
Beneath his hands o'ershading,
And rugged men sweet comfort felt
Or tender true upbraiding,-

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 !
How many a soul he guided,
With sympathy of heart and hand,
And feelings many-sided !

And when the social lists were lit,
And worthy foemen tilted,
How flash'd the poniard of his wit,
Keen-bladed, diamond-hilted.

Sleep calm in earth, a Bishop robed,
Waiting God's golden morrow.
O memory, leave the wound unprobed,
Nor bring too sharp a sorrow!

Let love draw near, and hope and faith,
Where the good saint lies sleeping;

His white face beautiful in death,
His soul in Christ's own keeping.

WILLIAM DERRY,

C. F. ALEXANDER.