Up on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made,
Where, over the daisies and clover bells, the birchen branches swayed;
Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June,
And under the cliffs the billows were chanting their ceaseless tune:
For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore,
Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more.

The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird, and the priest's low tone were blent
In the breeze that blew from the moorland, all laden with country scent;
But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains,
Or of lilies deep in the wild wood, or roses gemming the lanes.
Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed men who gathered around the grave.
Where lay the mate who had fought with them the battle of wind and wave.

How boldly he steered the coble across the foaming bar.
When the sky was black to the eastward and the breakers white on the Scar!
How his keen eye caught the squall ahead, how his strong hand furled the sail.
As we drove o'er the angry waters before the raging gale!
How cheery he kept all the long dark night; and never a parson spoke
Good words, like those he said to us, when at last the morning broke!

So thought the dead man's comrades, as silent and sad they stood.
While the prayer was prayed, the blessing said, and the dull earth struck the wood;
And the widow's sob, and the orphan's wail, jarred through the joyous air;
How could the light wind o'er the sea, blow on so fresh and fair?
How could the gay waves laugh and leap, landward o'er sand and stone,
While he, who knew and loved them all, lay lapped in clay alone?

But for long, when to the beetling heights the snow-tipped billows roll,
When the cod, and skate, and dogfish dart around the herring shoal;
When gear is sorted, and sails are set, and the merry breezes blow.
And away to the deep sea-harvest the stalwart reapers go,
A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, they will give to him who lies
Where the clover springs, and the heather blooms, beneath the northern skies.

The good old bishop was lying dead.
⁠His people knew he had wished to die,
For after the life of the soul is fled.
That the body might live to be clothed and fed
⁠Was a fear he had been troubled by.

In dismal black was the palace draped.
⁠Black were the plumes and funeral pall,
And nothing about him the story shaped
That a beautiful soul had from earth escaped,
⁠To dwell in heaven above us all.

Stately and grand was the palace gloom,
⁠The old cathedral was very grand.
And very magnificent was the tomb,
And the great old bell, with majestic boom,
⁠Toll'd the tale to a sorrowing land.

Sorrowing? Yes — there was sorrow there -
⁠For he was a wise and trusty chief.
It was not the sorrow of a despair.
Nor yet of a deep and a deathless care.
⁠But of a gentle and reverent grief.

Clergy and friends, and the nearer yet.
⁠Will follow the good dead man with pain.
And when in his grave they have seen him set,
With the "tender touch" of a kind regret
⁠Return to their pleasant homes again.

Such is the natural, proper course —
⁠Only one little chorister boy
Wept with a wild and a vehement force.
Wept with a passion that seem'd like remorse,
⁠And that emptied the world of its joy.

A white-robed boy with a rosy face,
⁠A baby eye and a dimpling chin;
They crowded about him with kindly grace
The cause of this tempest of grief to trace.
⁠And to show him such grief was a sin.

But the little chorister raised his head
⁠And shook his fist at the gloomy bier,
"It is such a pity," he sharply said,
"That a boy should live when a bishop is dead.
⁠And he should be there while I am here."

Thou innocent white-robed chorister.
⁠Is death the worst that a life can bring?
Loyal the thoughts that thy bosom stir
But may not a good old bishop prefer
⁠A peaceable death to anything?

Grudge not the crown to the aged brow.
⁠He has lived his life and fought his fight;
But pray that when death shall approach thee, thou
May'st then be as ready to die as now.
⁠Innocent-hearted and robed in white!