Classic Poem

How time has circled o'er our head,
Since that dear Prelate passed away,
Our sacramental host who led,
In many a dark and troublous day.

Yet memory oft will sketch his form,
The silvery locks — the placid brow,
Each feature with affection warm.
Depict themselves before us now.

But have we reared a lasting shrine,
The witness of his virtues rare?
Do Gratitude and Love combine,
And thus his peerless worth declare?

In firm, compact, embodied form,
What granite tablet speaks his name?
What pile preserves his image warm,
And still transmits his deeds to fame?

Ah none — yet still if toil be blest,
And woman's work of Faith sustained,
Success must fill with joy the breast,
And that dear project soon be gained.

The Daughters of the Church would rear,
A temple, with its portals free,
And train and nurture spirits there,
God's chosen ones at last to be.

And as that monumental fane,
Shall burst upon their longing sight,
Its Altar, aisle, and glowing pane,
Shall breathe the name of Bishop W HITE .

Let manhood bring its coffer'd store,
Be woman's tribute gladly given,
Let childhood, too, its offering pour,
Winning the fostering smile of Heaven.

Yes, consecrate to God the gold,
And as that Temple rises free,
Until its topmost stone is told,
Let Grace, free Grace, the shouting be!