He was dying fast, and the hours went by,
Ah! desolate hours were they!
His mind had hidden away somewhere
Back of a fretted and wearied brow,
Ere he passed from life away.
And one who loved him (at dead of night),
Crept up to an altar, where the light
That guards Christ's Eucharistic sleep,
Shone strangely down on his vow:
"Spare him! O God! — O God! for me,
Take me, beautiful Christ, instead;
Let me taste of death and come to Thee,
I will sleep for him with the dead."
The Angel of Death said: "No! Priest! No!
You must suffer and live, but he must go."
And a voice like Christ's sang far away:
"He will come to me, but you must stay."
We leaned on hope that was all in vain,
'Till the terrible word at last
Told our stricken hearts he was out of pain,
And his beautiful life had passed.
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.