Thus spake, low-voiced, the venerable man,
'If I had died remote. To spare that grief
Before the time intended I returned.'
Sadly that comrade looked upon his face,
Yet saw there nought of sadness. Silent each
Advanced they till they met that cowled host:
But three weeks later on his bed the boy
Remembered well those words.
Within a cell
To Algar's near that later night a youth
Wrote thus to one far off, his earliest friend:
'O blessed man! was e'er a death so sweet!
He sang that verse, "A dreadful thing it is
To fall into the hands of God, All-Just;"
Yet awe in him seemed swallowed up by love;
And ofttimes with the Prophets and the Psalms
He mixed glad minstrelsies of English speech,
Songs to his childhood dear!
'O blessed man!
The Ascension Feast of Christ our Lord drew nigh;
He watched that splendour's advent; sang its hymn:
"All-glorious King, Who, triumphing this day,
Into the heaven of heavens didst make ascent,
Forsake us not, poor orphans! Send Thy Spirit,
The Spirit of Truth, the Father's promised Gift,
To comfort us, His children: Hallelujah."
And when he reached that word, "Forsake us not,"
He wept--not tears of grief. With him we wept;
Alternate wept; alternate read our rite;
Yea, while we wept we read. So passed that day,
The sufferer thanking God with labouring breath,
"God scourges still the son whom He receives."
'Undaunted, unamazed, daily he wrought
His daily task; instruction daily gave
To us his scholars round him ranged, and said,
"I will not have my pupils learn a lie,
Nor, fruitless, toil therein when I am gone."
Full well he kept an earlier promise, made
Ofttimes to humble folk, in English tongue
Rendering the Gospels of the Lord. On these,
The last of these, the Gospel of Saint John,
He laboured till the close. The days went by,
And still he toiled, and panted, and gave thanks
To God with hands uplifted; yea, in sleep
He made thanksgiving still. When Tuesday came
Suffering increased; he said, "My time is short;
How short it is I know not." Yet we deemed
He knew the time of his departure well.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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