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For ever in the lowly voice of

prayerFull loth, I ween, when ruder sounds compel 'Its passive nature to unwilling madness;— Hath air a joy so meek, so sweet a sadness, As when she murmurs in a last farewell!

TO A FRIEND

SUFFERING UNDER A RECENT BEREAVEMENT.

THINK not, my friend, my heart or hand are cold
Because I do not, and I cannot weep.

Too sudden was the knowledge of the woe,
And it requires some time, some thoughtful pause,
Ere we believe what but too well we know.
Some men are lessoned long in sorrow's school,
And serve a long apprenticeship to grief,

So, when the ill day comes, their minds are clad
In funeral garments. Death came here at once,
Like the sun's setting in the level sea;
No meek, pale warning, melancholy eve,
Weaned the fond eyesight from the joyous day;
'Twas full-orbed day, and then 'twas total night-
Sad night for us, but better day for her.

Well may'st thou mourn, but mourn not without hope:
Thou art not one, I know, that can believe
A pausing pulse, an intermitted breath,
Or aught that can to mortal flesh befal,

Can turn to nothing any way of God,
Or frustrate one good purpose of our Lord.
She was a purpose of the great Creator,
Begun on earth, and well on earth pursued,
Now in the heaven of heavens consummate,
Or happy waiting the predestined day,

The flower and glory of her consummation.

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 dreamed 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 appeared the utmost bound, And let the morrow-be whate'er it may.

But on the morrow he is in 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 wondered 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.

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