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 Too sudden was the knowledge of the woe, So, when the ill day comes, their minds are clad Well may'st thou mourn, but mourn not without hope: Can turn to nothing any way of God, 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, 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 A nibble-ah! what ecstasy!—a bite. Years glided on, a week was then a year, 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- |