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| ST. ARBOGAST, the bishop, lay | |
| On his bed of death in Strasburg Palace, | |
| And, just at the dawn of his dying day, | |
| Into his own hands took the chalice; | |
| And, praying devoutly, he received | 5 |
| The blesséd Host, and thus addressed | |
| His Chapter, who around him grieved, | |
| And, sobbing, heard his last request. | |
| |
| Quoth he, “The sinful man you see | |
| Was born beyond the Western sea, | 10 |
| In Ireland, whence, ordained, he came, | |
| In Alsace, to preach, in Jesus’ name. | |
| There, in my cell at Hagueneau, | |
| Many unto the One I drew; | |
| There fared King Dagobert one day, | 15 |
| With all his forestrie array, | |
| Chasing out wolves and beasts unclean, | |
| As I did errors from God’s demesne; | |
| The king approached our cell, and he | |
| Esteemed our assiduity; | 20 |
| And, when the blessed St. Amand died, | |
| He called us to his seat, and sighed, | |
| And charged us watch and ward to keep | |
| In Strasburg o’er our Master’s sheep. | |
| |
| “Mitre of gold we never sought, | 25 |
| Cope of silver to us was naught, | |
| Jewelled crook and painted book | |
| We disregarded, but, perforce, took. | |
| Ah! oft in Strasburg’s cathedral | |
| We sighed for one rude cell so small, | 30 |
| And often from the bishop’s throne | |
| To the forest’s depths we would have flown, | |
| But that our duty to Him who made us | |
| His shepherd in this see forbade us. | |
| |
| “And now”—St. Arbogast spoke slow, | 35 |
| But his words were firm, though his voice was low,— | |
| “God doth require his servant hence, | |
| And our hope is his omnipotence. | |
| But bury me not, dear brethren, with | |
| The pomp of torches or music, sith | 40 |
| Such idle and unholy state | |
| Should ne’er on a Christian bishop wait; | |
| Leave cope of silver and painted book, | |
| Mitre of gold, and jewelled crook, | |
| Apart in the vestry’s darkest nook; | 45 |
| But in Mount Michael bury me, | |
| Beneath the felon’s penal tree,— | |
| So Christ our Lord lay at Calvary. | |
| This do, as ye my blessing prize, | |
| And God keep you pure and wise!” | 50 |
| These were the words—they were the last— | |
| Of the blesséd Bishop Arbogast. | |
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