William Croswell

THE WHITE-STOLED Bishop stood amid a crowd—

Noviciates all—who, tutor’d to revere

The mitre’s holy offices, drew near,

And, after sins renounced, and pledges vow’d,

Pale with emotion and religious fear,

In meek subjection, round the chancel, bow’d,

To hallow’d hands, that o’er them, one by one,

Fell, with a Prelate’s thrilling benison.

Thou who canst make the loadstone’s touch impart

An active virtue to the temper’d steel,

Oh let thy hand rest on them till they feel

A new-born impulse stirring in the heart,

And, swinging from surrounding objects, free,

Point, with a tremulous confidence to Thee!