U

Darwin

NRESTING and unhasting Labourer,
Thy faithful toil and eye intuitive,

And all the gifts a lavish life cån give,
Have crowned thee Nature's chosen Inter-
preter.

The attributes august we feign in her

Are verily of thy being, and shall live

Linked with thy name, what chance soe'er arrive,
A memory and a music rich and clear.
Therefore henceforth thy spirit evermore

Shall seem inhabitant of each thought and thing
It pondered; whether where the murmuring bee
Buries his bright plumes in the flowery store,
Or where within the coral's rampart ring
Sleep the still pools amid the clamorous sea.

George Odger

1820-1877

Ernest Myers.

HE first rough month that ends the flowerless time

Has come, and in this worldly city of ours The churches slowly peal their Lenten chime, Till Easter Day shall deck their shrines with flowers;

But to the mourners these are leaden hours,
Sad, sad the hours that have no chime to tell
Of coming happiness, nor music hid

Behind the clangour of the wasting bell.
No priest hath bent above this coverlid,

No sacerdotal mercies have made light
The pangs of dying to this heart to-night;
Forlorn of flowers this wintry bier must be,
And yet will I be bold to lay thereon
A fading yellow daffodil that shone

In some far western orchard where the dead
Perchance has wandered in his infancy;

For he, too, who lies worn on that dim bed, He, too, was once, like us, a lover true

Of flowers and verse and the Spring's wonders new, Until the chilling shadow came between,

And all the sorrow that his eyes had seen, Blanched to those eyes the tender heavens and blue.

No gift of ours is immortality;

We cannot bid the soul that dies to-day Revive in all men's memories when we die. The destiny that bids one fame decay, Another flourish, we must all obey; Disease, and disappointment, and the worm Of benefits forgotten, like a deer

Hunted him down; the Spirit of reform

Passed him upon his upward pathway drear.
Others more fortunate shall win their way
Into success, but let their strength revere
The shattered virtue that lies weak to-day.

Temperate he was and calm, whom the world judged Most violent; loving the people best,

Some idle pleasures that the rich possessed He, for their reckless pride and folly, grudged Those whom of all men he was last to hate.

Early he learned, by bitter ways of toilLabour that teaches men to bear and waitThat he who will not be the fool of fate,

Whirled in life's undistinguishable coil,

Must struggle with both hands and haply bleed.

In such a school Time sowed a hardy seed,
That overgrew the garden of the heart,
And bid its bearer choose no thornless part
In the world's warfare. It may be indeed
That, heavy with all the burden of all the pain
That wept around him, and the great wrongs borne
By men and women in the social strain,

He less than others of soft words was fain,
And knew the scathing power of sudden scorn.
Yet was he true and good, fed by desires

Pure as the dreams of some Utopian sage,
Who towards a visioned Heaven on earth aspires.
Somewhat behind, in much before his age,
Honour be his, that when the tides ran high
Of rank with rank, inflamed with creed and lie,
He, suffering most, yet bravely strove to assuage
The sea of pain, and hush the gathering cry.

Songs there have been enough in lofty phrase
On men who all the heights of fame had scaled;
Let this one rhyme suffice to sing the praise
Of one who wrestled with his fate, and failed.

Edmund Gosse.

S

Hawarden

(May 19th, 1898)

EE where yon climber with its flower-crowned sprays

Leans to the opened window. In that

room

He lies who passed the span of mortal days By many a happy year, yet cloud and gloom Pursued him, and the steps of doom.

For gifts, he had the things men most desire,
Strength, honour in the eyes of friend and foe,
Wealth, and success, and genius' mystic fire.
The tide is ebbing, and the lights are low.

With steadfast and unconquerable will

He schooled his feet to tread the path severe,
The narrow path which scales that frowning hill
Where virgin Duty sits, white-robed, austere,
Voicing her summons clarion-clear.

The awful music in his ear became
Sweeter than melodies that softly flow,
His watchwords were a call, a cry, a Name.
The tide is ebbing, and the lights are low.

That call he heard in the fresh days of youth,
And ever as the hurrying years went by
His quick, responsive heart was wrung with ruth
Hearing the anguished, inarticulate cry
Of poor, oppressed humanity.

White-hot the stone from heaven's high altar borne
Touching his lips, till that dumb wail of woe

Leapt heavenward, clothed in words of wrath and scorn. The tide is ebbing, and the lights are low.

Deep in his heart as in a secret shrine

An altar stood, the altar of the Name,
There burned the fire kindled by breath Divine,
And thither constantly the watcher came
To tend and guard the sacred flame.
Brighter it glowed for all the weight of

years

And pangs the bodily frame must undergo, Consuming fond regrets, and natural fears. The tide is ebbing, and the lights are low.

Dark is the shrine, the altar broken down,

The fire extinguished, cold the watcher's hand,

The noble words, the deeds of high renown

All numbered with their works who silent stand, The storied heroes of our land.

In the wan light of this new day it seems

A poorer world, where, strutting to and fro, We play our little parts, and dream our dreams. The tide is ebbing, and the lights are low.

So lay him for a sign, where England's heart
Throbs loudest, 'mid the burden and the heat
Of that great strife wherein he bore his part
Unspoiled by victory, dauntless in defeat,
His lesson learned, his work complete.
There where the marble silences recall

The memories of the men of long ago,
There leave him with our heroes, chief of all.
The tide is out, the lights are burning low.

A

Ruskin

B. Paul Neuman.

MID the stress of high-embattled strife
Thy gentle spirit finds its long release;
So ends the quiet labour of a life

That loved the things of Peace.

Her triumphs were thy own; the bloodless fight For Truth and Beauty thou hast waged and won; Careless of praise; content before the night

To know thy work well done.

Nature to thee was holy ground, and Art

An act of worship wrought within the shrine; To thee, if given to God with perfect heart, Such service showed divine.