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.
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