Father Pollock And His Brother:
Mission Priests of St. Albans Birmingham
Transcribed by Robert Stevens
J. S. P., T. B. P.
of S. John
the rich harvest of his autumn hours,
When ripened fruitage held the place of flowers,
GOD called him Home, whom He had only lent
To show how Heaven may with earth be blent.
It was mid-winter, dark and drear, and chill,
When he was borne into the churchyard still,
By those, who must their dearest and their best,
Beneath the green low grasses lay to rest.
The air was thick with sobs and falling tears,
The throbbing of the Death March filled their ears,
When, through the storm of sorrow there was heard
The clear soft treble of a little bird,
For in the light of winter, wan and pale,
Was warbling sweet the autumn nightingale
A voice uprose from all that weeping throng,
O`O Bird, our hearts are breaking, hush thy song,
But ever, oOer the tones that told of pain,
Still heavenward rose the little birdOs sweet strain.
O`Is not your depth of sorrow known to Him,
Whose eyes beside the open grave were dim?
With him, indeed, ye know that it is well
Who in his hour of triumph, nobly fell.
Meetly ye lay the palm-leaf on his breast,
A victor, whom his King has called to rest,
Who, now at peace in bless?d Paradise,
Waiteth until the Easter morning rise.
While this hard lesson now ye spell with tears,
Let this low carol whisper in your ears,
O^Soon will all sorrow be for ever gone,
Love is eternal; therefore I sing on.O"