On rich and poor, on high and low, too sad to tell.
A month of mourning past, the people sought to know
Whom he’d appointed in his place their way to show.
Whom must we recognise successor to our saint?
Into whose hands commit the task of our restraint?
He was a sun of light; his fire hath turned to fume,
A candle now we need our darkness to illume.
Our friend is gone,—is lost to our inquiring eyes.
A substitute we seek,—memorial we may prize.360
Our rose is withered;—rosebush leaves all blown away,