Classic Poem

That cream was of the kindliest strain
That meadow ever drew
From sunlight and the summer rain,
From darkness and the dew!
That left no stain in yonder vein
But Heaven's—the sapphire blue.
That gentleman, we knew,
So gentle and so true;
A knight whose signet bore
A “Bullock,” and no more;
A quaint device, by Sacrifice
And Labor won of yore!

And matchless sweet the golden wheat
That met and moulded him,
A man complete from head to feet
In grace of soul and limb;
That lent his gaze the lion's blaze,
His smile—who smiles like him?
Ah! tremulous and dim,
Through tears we think of him,
The knight whose signet bore
That quaint device of “Sacrifice”
And “Labor,” and no more.

Upon no statelier sight
The circling sun hath smiled,
Nor oak of loftier height
Dropped shade so sweet and mild;
Where love came down like light,
And happiness grew wild!
The sage, the little child,
Peasant and Prince, have smiled
Around his knees who bore
The Bullock; quaint device
Of Toil and Sacrifice,
Which all his fathers wore,
Which he shall wear no more.

For he is dead! Beneath the tread
Of battle, in the roar
That rent the sod, his face to God,
He went, and came no more!
The fragrance of the path he trod
In Sacrifice is o'er.
Yet all the kindliest rays
Of all the knightliest days
Kindled forever more,
Around the cross he bore;
Around the quaint device
Of Toil and Sacrifice
That our great Bishop wore.