Part 46

Oh! take him away from where he died; Put him not with the common dead (For he was so pure and fair); And the city was stirred, and thousands cried Whose tears were a very prayer.

No, no, no, take him home again, For his bishop's heart beats there; Cast him not with the common dead, Let him go home and rest his head, Ah! his weary and grief-worn head, On the heart of his father -- he is mild For he loved him as his own child.

And they brought him home to the home he blest, With his life so sweet and fair, He blessed it more in his deathly rest -- His face was a chiseled prayer, White as the snow, pure as the foam Of a weary wave on the sea, He drifted back -- and they placed him where He would love at last to be.

His Father in God thought over the years Of the beautiful happy past; Ah! me! we were happy then; but now, The sorrow has come, and saddest tears Kiss the dead priest's virgin brow.

Who will watch o'er the dead young priest, People and priests and all? No, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast; When the evening shadows fall, Let him rest alone -- unwatched, alone, Just beneath the altar's light, The holy hosts on their humble throne Will watch him all thro' the night.

The doors were closed -- he was still and fair, What sound moved up the aisles? The dead priests come with soundless prayer, Their faces wearing smiles. And this was the soundless hymn they sung: "We watch o'er you to-night, Your life was beautiful, fair, and young, Not a cloud upon its light. To-morrow -- to-morrow you will rest With the virgin priests whom Christ has blest."

Kyrie Eleison! the stricken crowd Bowed down their heads in tears O'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shroud (Ah! the happy, happy years!) They are dead and gone, and the Requiem Mass Went slowly, mournfully on, The Pontiff's singing was all a wail, The altars cried, and the people wept, The fairest flower in the church's vale (Ah! me! how soon we pass!) In the vase of his coffin slept.

We bore him out to his resting place, Children, priests, and all; There was sorrow on almost ev'ry face -- And ah! what tears did fall! Tears from hearts, for a heart asleep, Tears from sorrow's deepest deep.

"Dust to dust," he was lowered down; Children! kneel and pray -- "Give the white rose priest a flower and crown, For the white rose passed away."

And we wept our tears and left him there. And brought his memory home -- Ah! he was beautiful, sweet, and fair, A heavenly hymn -- a sweet, still prayer, Pure as the snow, white as the foam,

That seeks a lone, far shore. Dead Priest! bless from amid the blest, The hearts that will guard thy place of rest, Forever, forever, forever more.

Mobile Mystic Societies

The olden golden stories of the world, That stirred the past, And now are dim as dreams, The lays and legends which the bards unfurled In lines that last, All -- rhymed with glooms and gleams. Fragments and fancies writ on many a page By deathless pen, And names, and deeds that all along each age, Thrill hearts of men. And pictures erstwhile framed in sun or shade Of many climes, And life's great poems that can never fade Nor lose their chimes; And acts and facts that must forever ring Like temple bells, That sound or seem to sound where angels sing Vesper farewells; And scenes where smiles are strangely touching tears, 'Tis ever thus, Strange Mystics! in the meeting of the years Ye bring to us All these, and more; ye make us smile and sigh, Strange power ye hold! When New Year kneels low in the star-aisled sky And asks the Old To bless us all with love, and life, and light, And when they fold Each other in their arms, ye stir the sight, We look, and lo! The past is passing, and the present seems To wish to go. Ye pass between them on your mystic way Thro' scene and scene, The Old Year marches through your ranks, away To what has been, The while the pageant moves, it scarcely seems Apart of earth; The Old Year dies -- and heaven crowns with gleams The New Year's birth. And you -- you crown yourselves with heaven's grace To enter here; A prayer -- ascending from an orphan face, Or just one tear May meet you in the years that are to be A blessing rare. Ye pass beneath the arch of charity, Who passeth there Is blest in heaven, and is blest on earth, And God will care, Beyond the Old Year's death and New Year's birth, For each of you, ye Mystics! everywhere.

Rest

My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired, My soul oppressed -- And I desire, what I have long desired -- Rest -- only rest.

'Tis hard to toil -- when toil is almost vain, In barren ways; 'Tis hard to sow -- and never garner grain, In harvest days.

The burden of my days is hard to bear, But God knows best; And I have prayed -- but vain has been my prayer For rest -- sweet rest.

'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap The Autumn yield; 'Tis hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weep O'er fruitless field.

And so I cry a weak and human cry, So heart oppressed; And so I sigh a weak and human sigh, For rest -- for rest.

My way has wound across the desert years, And cares infest My path, and through the flowing of hot tears, I pine -- for rest.

'Twas always so; when but a child I laid On mother's breast My wearied little head; e'en then I prayed As now -- for rest.

And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er; For down the West Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore Where I shall rest.

Follow Me

The Master's voice was sweet: "I gave My life for thee; Bear thou this cross thro' pain and loss, Arise and follow Me." I clasped it in my hand -- O Thou! who diedst for me, The day is bright, my step is light, 'Tis sweet to follow Thee!

Through the long Summer days I followed lovingly; 'Twas bliss to hear His voice so near, His glorious face to see. Down where the lilies pale Fringed the bright river's brim, In pastures green His steps were seen -- 'Twas sweet to follow Him!

Oh, sweet to follow Him! Lord, let me here abide. The flowers were fair; I lingered there; I laid His cross aside -- I saw His face no more By the bright river's brim; Before me lay the desert way -- 'Twas hard to follow Him!

Yes! hard to follow Him Into that dreary land! I was alone; His cross had grown Too heavy for my hand. I heard His voice afar Sound thro' the night air chill; My weary feet refused to meet His coming o'er the hill.

The Master's voice was sad: "I gave My life for thee; I bore the cross thro' pain and loss, Thou hast not followed Me." So fair the lilies' banks, So bleak the desert way: The night was dark, I could not mark Where His blessed footsteps lay.