Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/81

And breathed the blessing of his God.
    And, full of meekness, said,
"Be faithful in your Master's work
    When your old bishop's dead.

"For more than fifty years, my sons,
    A Saviour's love supreme
Unto a sinful world, hath been
    My unexhausted theme;

"Now, see, the blossoms of the grave
    Are o'er my temples spread,
Oh! lead the seeking soul to Him
    When your old bishop's dead."

Far waned the holy Sabbath-eve
    On toward the midnight hour,
Before the spellbound throng retired
    To slumber's soothing power;

Yet many a sleeper, mid his dream,
    Beheld in snowy stole
That patriarch-prelate's bending form,
    Whose accents stirr'd the soul.

In smiles the summer morn arose,
    And many a grateful guest,
Forth from those hospitable domes,
    With tender memories, press'd,