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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,