THE DEAD BISHOP.
From the summit of Sewanee Mountain
there lately arose a cry of exceeding bitter-
ness, and it spread West, South and East
until the waves of the Mississippi, of the
Gulf, and even the billows of the far-off At-
lantic caught up the sound and pealed back
an echo of the solemn dirge. It is the wail
of the country for a good man gone; it is
the cry of the church for its dead bishop; it
is the sob of children over a lost father.
A North Carolinian by birth and educa-
tion, a Tennessean bu residence and a
Mississippian by right of bishopric, there
were few men better known or more uni-
versally beloved than Bishop Green, of the
diocese of Mississippi, and his death, which
occured at Sewanee on the 13th, has sad-
dened thousands of happy homes through-
out the three States. His life was like
some sweet tune whose harmony was never
jarred by the evil accompaniment of the
world, and its last notes like a beautiful
vesper hymn, have died away into the si-
lence of the grave.
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me-"
Sung above a coffin lid,
Underneath all restfully,
All life's joys and sorrows hid.
Nevermore from wind or tide,
Nevermore from billows roll,
Wilt thou need thyself to hide!
Could the sightless, sunken eyes,
Closed beneath the soft gray hair,
Could the mute and stiffened lips
Move again in pleading prayer,
Still, aye still, the words would be:
"Let me hide thyself in Thee!"
EN