The good old bishop was lying dead.
His people knew he had wished to die,
For after the life of the soul is fled.
That the body might live to be clothed and fed
Was a fear he had been troubled by.
In dismal black was the palace draped.
Black were the plumes and funeral pall,
And nothing about him the story shaped
That a beautiful soul had from earth escaped,
To dwell in heaven above us all.
Stately and grand was the palace gloom,
The old cathedral was very grand.
And very magnificent was the tomb,
And the great old bell, with majestic boom,
Toll'd the tale to a sorrowing land.
Sorrowing? Yes — there was sorrow there -
For he was a wise and trusty chief.
It was not the sorrow of a despair.
Nor yet of a deep and a deathless care.
But of a gentle and reverent grief.
Clergy and friends, and the nearer yet.
Will follow the good dead man with pain.
And when in his grave they have seen him set,
With the "tender touch" of a kind regret
Return to their pleasant homes again.
Such is the natural, proper course —
Only one little chorister boy
Wept with a wild and a vehement force.
Wept with a passion that seem'd like remorse,
And that emptied the world of its joy.
A white-robed boy with a rosy face,
A baby eye and a dimpling chin;
They crowded about him with kindly grace
The cause of this tempest of grief to trace.
And to show him such grief was a sin.
But the little chorister raised his head
And shook his fist at the gloomy bier,
"It is such a pity," he sharply said,
"That a boy should live when a bishop is dead.
And he should be there while I am here."
Thou innocent white-robed chorister.
Is death the worst that a life can bring?
Loyal the thoughts that thy bosom stir
But may not a good old bishop prefer
A peaceable death to anything?
Grudge not the crown to the aged brow.
He has lived his life and fought his fight;
But pray that when death shall approach thee, thou
May'st then be as ready to die as now.
Innocent-hearted and robed in white!
