Joy, sainted soul! Within the vale
Of Heaven's great temple, is thy blissful dwelling;
Bathed in a light, to which the sun is pale,
Archangels' hymns in endless transports swelling.
Joy, sainted soul!
Back to her altar which he served,
The Holy Church her child is bringing.
The organ's wail then dies away,
And kneeling priests around him pray,
As _De Profundis_ they are singing.

Bring all the trophies, that are owed
To him at once so great, so good.
His Bible and his well-used sword--
His snowy lawn not "stained with blood!"
No! pure as when before his God,
He laid its spotless folds aside,
War's path of awful duty trod,
And on his country's altar died!

Oh! Warrior-bishop, Church and State
Sustain in thee an equal loss;
But who would call thee from thy weight
Of glory, back to bear life's cross!
The Faith was kept--thy course was run,
Thy good fight finished; hence the word,
"Well done, oh! faithful child, well done,
Taste thou the mercies of thy Lord!"