A SCHOOLFELLOW'S TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. OWEN LLOYD.

I.

I was a comrade of his childish days,
And then he was to me a little boy,
My junior much, a child of winning ways;
His every moment was a throb of joy.

Fine wit he had, and knew not it was wit,

And native thoughts before he dream'd of thinking; Odd sayings, too, for each occasion fit,

To oldest sights the newest fancies linking.

And his the hunter's bounding strength of spirit;
The fisher's patient craft, and quick delight
To watch his line, to see a small fish near it;
A nibble-ah! what ecstasy! a bite.

Years glided on,—a week was then a year,
Fools only say that happy hours are short;
Time lingers long on moments that are dear.
Long is the summer holiday of sport.

But then our days were each a perfect round; Our farthest bourne of hope and fear, to-day; Each morn to night appear'd the utmost bound, And let the morrow-be whate'er it may.

But on the morrow he is on the cliff

He hangs midway the falcon's nest to plunder; Behold him sticking, like an ivy leaf,

To the tall rock-he cares not what is under.

II.

I traced with him the narrow winding path Which he pursued when upland was his way; And then I wonder'd what stern hand of wrath Had smitten him that wont to be so gay!

Then would he tell me of a woful weight-
A weight laid on him by a bishop's hand,
That late and early, early still and late,
He could not bear, and yet could not withstand.

Of holy thoughts he spake, and purpose high, Dead in his heart, and yet like spectres stirring; Of Hope that could not either live or die,

And Faith confused with self-abhorr'd demurring.

How beautiful the feet that from afar

Bring happy tidings of eternal good!
Then kiss the feet that so bewilder'd are;

They cannot farther go where fain they would.

III.

I saw his coffin-'twas enough.

I saw

That he was gone—that his deep wound was heal'd ;
No more he struggles betwixt faith and law,
The fulness of his bliss is now reveal'd:

He rests in peace; in Langdale's peaceful vale
He sleeps secure beneath the grassy sod;
Ah, no! he doth not-he hath heard "All hail,
Thou faithful servant," from the throne of God!

TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES GREENWOOD.

I.

OH, Death! thou art indeed an awful thing,
Did we believe in all we ought to know;
Yet ever brooding, thine invisible wing
Casts not a shadow on the vale below.

With vernal thyme the turfy hillocks swell,

Old Fairfield's side is sweet with fragrant larches,

And the slim lady birch he loved so well

With paly verdure decks her graceful arches.

The lovely things to which he gave a soul,
Till they became a body to his mind,
Are what they were before the booming toll
Declared his corse to hallow'd earth consign'd.

Yet in one house, that stands upon the brow,

One thought of death and of the dead is all; Their depth of grief is all their comfort now, They pray to God to help their tears to fall.

VOL. II.

N

II.

He whom they miss, he was not of this land,
No grey-coat shepherd of the hill or plain;
For he was born where the tall chimneys stand,
And the hot wheels are whirring still for gain.

And yet as well he loved the mountain height
As he himself had been a mountain boy,
As well he loved the croft with daisies dight
As one that never knew a fiercer joy.

Sure thou hast seen, whoever thou may'st be,
If thou hast ever seen a London square,
A pining thing that ought to be a tree,
And would be so if not imprison'd there.

And haply thought how beautiful and large
The limbs and leaves of that imprison'd thing
Had been, if planted by the emerald marge

Of dripping well to shade the grateful spring.

"Twas so with him: in office close and dun

Full soon he learn'd the needful lore of trade; Skill'd to compute how much the bargain won,

And ponder hard if more might have been made.