Produced by Al Haines

THE DEATH OF SAUL:

AND OTHER

EISTEDDFOD PRIZE POEMS

AND

MISCELLANEOUS VERSES.

BY

J. C. MANNING

(CARL MORGANWG.

SWANSEA:

J. C. MANNING, 9, CASTLE STREET.

AND ALL BOOKSELLERS.

PRICE SIX SHILLINGS.

1877.

DEATH OF SAUL

AND

OTHER POEMS.

THE EISTEDDFOD COMMITTEE

AND THE

"DEATH OF SAUL."

Being restricted by the Wrexham Eisteddfod Committee to 200 lines, I was obliged to lop away from the bulk of the following poem just sufficient for their requirements. I have always declaimed, from a physical point of view, against the pernicious influence of light-lacing, and this being so, it was not likely I could go at once and mentally encase my delicate muse, for a permanency, in a straight waistcoat, at the behest of any committee in the world. What would she have thought of me? If, therefore, the committee, or any member of it, should by chance observe that the "Death of Saul," as I now produce it, is of a more comprehensive character than the "Death of Saul" for which they were good enough to award me the first prize, they will see the poem without the temporary stays in which I was necessitated to encase it in order to make it acceptable to them and their restrictive tastes. To squeeze a poem of nearly 400 lines into the dimensions of one of 200, is, in my opinion, an achievement worthy of a prize in itself; and as half of the original had a gold medal awarded to it, the whole of it, I should think, ought to be worth two. I trust Eisteddfod committees, when they contemplate putting the curb upon us poor poets, will think of the Wrexham National Eisteddfod, and how half the "Death of Saul" took a first prize.

TO THE PUBLIC.

  Let the bright sun of Approbation shine
  In warmth upon the humble rhymester's line,
  And, like the lark that flutters tow'rds the light,
  He spreads his pinions for a loftier flight.
  The chilling frowns of critics may retard,
  But cannot kill, the ardour of the Bard,
  For, gaining wisdom by experience taught,
  As grass grows strong from wounds by mowers wrought,
  Success will come the Poet's fears to assuage,
  Crowning his hopes with Poesy's perfect page.

PREFACE.

The verses which make up this volume have been written at intervals, and under the most varied and chequered circumstances, extending over a period of five-and-twenty years. If, therefore, they bear upon their surface variety of sentiment and incongruity of feeling, that fact will explain it. I am fully aware that some of the pieces are unequal in merit from a purely artistic point of view, but I have felt that my audience will be varied in its composition, and hence the introduction of variety. The tone, however, of the whole work, I believe to be healthy; and where honest maxims, combined with homely metaphor, are found to take the place of high constructive art, they will, I know, be excused by votaries of the latter, for the sake of those whose hearts and instincts are much more sensitive to homely appeals than to the charms of mere artistic effect. The pieces have all been written, together with many other effusions, at such leisure moments as have been accorded to one who, during the whole time of their composition, has had to apply himself, almost without cessation, to the performance of newspaper press duties; and those who know anything about such things need not be told that a taste for versification is, to a press-man, as a rule, what poverty is to most people—a very inconvenient and by no means a profitable companion. In my own case, however, the inconvenience has been a pleasure, and I have no reason to find fault as to profit. From the fitful excitement of journalistic duties I have turned to "making poetry," as Spenser defines the art, as a jaded spirit looks for rest, and have always felt refreshed after it. My only hope in connection with the poetry I have thus made is, that those who may incline to read what I have written will take as much pleasure in reading as I have taken in writing it, and that the result to myself will be a justification for having published the work, to be found only in that public appreciation which I hope to obtain,

SWANSEA.——J. C. MANNING.

CONTENTS.

  To the Public
  Preface
  Dedication
  The Wrexham Eisteddfod and the "Death of Saul"
  Historical Note
  DEATH OF SAUL
    Episode the First
    Episode the Second
    Episode the Third
    Episode the Fourth
  Palm Sunday in Wales
  Elegy on the late Crawshay Bailey, Esq.
  Nash Vaughan Edwardes Vaughan; a Monody
  Monody on the Death of Mrs. Nicholl Carne
  Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of Mrs. Grenfell
  In Dreams
  Mewn Cof Anwyl: on the Death of John Johnes, Esq., of Dolaucothy
  Elegiac
  In Memoriam
  To Clara
  E.H.R.
  A.R.
  Venus and Astery
  To a Royal Mourner
  Beautiful Wales
  Gwalia Deg
  The Welsh Language: to Caradawc, of Abergavenny
  Englyn i'r Iath Gymraeg
  A Foolish Bird
  I'd Choose to be a Nightingale: to Mary (Llandovery)
  True Philanthropy: to J. D. Llewellyn, Esq., Penllergare
  Disraeli
  Down in the Dark: the Ferndale Explosion
  DAISY MAY:—Part the First
              Part the Second
              Part the Third
  Lines, accompanying a Purse
  Forsaken
  Christmas is Coming
  Heart Links
  The Oak to the Ivy
  Epigram on a Welshwoman's Hat
  Shadows in the Fire
  The Belfry Old
  Beautiful Barbara
  Song of the Silken Shroud
  A University for Wales
  Griefs Untold
  I Will
  Dawn and Death
  Castles in the Air
  The Withered Rose
  Wrecks of Life
  Eleanor
  New Year's Bells
  The Vase and the Weed
  A Riddle
  To a Fly Burned by a Gaslight
  To a Friend
  Retribution
  The Three Graces
  The Last Rose of Summer
  The Starling and the Goose
  The Heroes of Alma
  A Kind Word, a Smile, or a Kiss
  Dear Mother, I'm Thinking of Thee
  The Heron and the Weather-Vane
  The Three Mirrors
  The Two Clocks
  Sacrifical: on the Execution of Two Greek Sailors at Swansea
  Wales to "Punch"
  Welcome!
  Change
  False as Fair
  Heads and Hearts
  Fall of Sebastopol
  To Lord Derby
  Unrequited
  The Household Spirit
  Had I a Heart
  A Bridal Simile
  Song
  I would my Love
  Death in Life
  Song of the Strike
  Nature's Heroes: the Rhondda Valley Disaster
  Elegy on the Death of a Little Child
  Magdalene
  Love Walks with Humanity Yet
  The Two Trees
  Stanzas
  Verses, written after Reading a Biography of His Grace the
    Duke of Beaufort
  A Simile
  The Two Sparrows
  Floating Away
  A Floral Fable
  Ring Down the Curtain
  The Telegraph Post
  Breaking on the Shore
  Hurrah! for the Rifle Corps
  Be Careful when you Find a Friend
  Brotherly Love
  England and France
  Against the Stream
  Wrecked in Sight of Home
  Sonnet
  Sebastopol is Won
  Hold Your Tongue
  My Mother's Portrait
  Never More
  Lines on the Death of the Rev. Canon Jenkins, Vicar of Aberdare
  Filial Ingratitude
  The Vine and the Sunflower
  POETIC PROVERBS:
     I.—Danger in Surety
    II.—A Wise Son
   III.—Hope Deferred
    IV.—Virtue's Crown
     V.—Sorrow in Mirth
  Christmas Anticipations
  Golden Tresses
  Hope for the Best
  Gone Before
  Henry Bath: Died October 14th, 1864
  Song of the Worker
  The Brooklet's Ambition
  St. Valentine's Eve
  Lost
  Lilybell
  Gone
  Life Dreams
  Aeolus and Aurora; or, the Music of the Gods
  Sonnet
  Sleeping in the Snow
  With the Rain
  Ode, on the Death of a Friend
  Lines: to a Young Lady who had jilted her Lover
  Vicarious Martyrs: to a Hen-pecked Schoolmaster
  Stanzas: on seeing Lady Noel Byron
  To Louisa
  The Orator and the Cask
  The Maid of the War
  Impromptu: on being asked by a Lady to write a Verse in her Album
  Mary: a Monody
  On the Marriage of Miss Nicholl Carne
  Impromptu: on the Death of Mr. Thomas Kneath, a well-known
    Teacher of Navigation, at Swansea
  EXTRACTS FROM UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPT:
    Humility Oppressed
    Upward Strivings
    Truthfulness
    Love's Influence
    Value of Adversity
    Misguiding Appearances
    Virgin Purity
    Man's Destiny
    Love's Incongruities
    Retribution
    Love's Mutability
    A Mother's Advice
  Sunrise in the Country
  Faith in Love
  Unrequited Affection
  The Poet's Troubles
  Echoes from the City
  Love's Wiles
  Hazard in Love
  A Mother's Love
  "The Shadow of the Cross"
  Curates and Colliers: on reading in a Comic Paper absurd
    comparisons between the wages of Curates and Colliers
  Wanted—a Wife: a Voice from the Ladies
  Sympathy
  A Fragment
  Law versus Theology: on an Eminent County Court Judge
  The Broken Model
  Impromptu: on an Inveterate Spouter
  A Character
  Couplet
  Pause: on the hesitation of the Czar to Force a Passage of
    the Danube, June, 1877
  The Test of the Stick
  Note: concerning Iuan Wyllt, an Eisteddfod at Neath, and
    a First Prize Poem

TO THE

MOST HONOURABLE THE MARQUESS OF BUTE:

WITH A GRATEFUL SENSE OF HIS LORDSHIP'S GENEROUS AND

OTHERWISE DISINTERESTED DESIRE,

IN ACCEPTING THE DEDICATION OF THE WORK,

TO ALONE FURTHER THE VIEWS AND ENCOURAGE THE LITERARY

ASPIRATIONS OF THE WRITER,

THIS VOLUME,

BY HIS LORDSHIP'S PERMISSION,

IS DEDICATED,

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF RESPECTFUL ADMIRATION OF HIS

TALENT AND WORTH,

BY HIS LORDSHIP'S OBLIGED AND OBEDIENT SERVANT,

THE AUTHOR.

DEATH OF SAUL.

PRIZE POEM.

WREXHAM NATIONAL EISTEDDFOD, 1876.

"The Vicar of Wrexham delivered his award on the 28 poems in English or Welsh, on 'The Death of Saul' ('Marwolaeth Saul'). The prize 5 pounds 5s. was given by Dr. Williams, Chairman of the Committee, and a gold medal was given by the Committee. The Vicar said the best composition was an English poem, signed 'David.' It was written in a style well adapted to the subject, in language dignified and sonorous, with not a little of the rhythmic cadence of Paradise Lost. It was real poetry; suggestive, and at times deeply impressive—the poetry of thought and culture, not of mere figure and fancy, and it was well calculated to do honour to its author, and to the National Eisteddfod of Wales. 'David' was among his fellow-competitors as Saul was amongst his brethren, higher than any of them from his shoulders upwards, and to him he awarded the prize which his poem well deserved."

HISTORICAL NOTE.

The design followed out in the succeeding poem has been to touch upon the leading historical incidents of Saul's career that lead up to and explain his tragic death on Mount Gilboa. With him, nearly 3,000 years ago, commenced the Monarchical government of the Israelites, who had previously been governed by a Theocracy. The Prophet Samuel, who anointed Saul, was the last of the High Priests or Judges under this Theocracy, which existed for 800 years, and died out with the acceptance of Saul, by the Israelites, as "King of all the tribes of Israel." The incidents touched upon range from the proclamation of Saul as King, by Samuel (1095 B.C.), to the fall of the hapless Monarch at the battle of Gilboa, 40 years afterwards.

Death of Saul

  As through the waves the freighted argosy
  Securely plunges, when the lode star's light
  Her path makes clear, and as, when angry clouds
  Obscure the guide that leads her on her way,
  She strikes the hidden rock and all is lost,
  So he of whom I sing—favoured of God,
  By disobedience dimmed the light divine
  That shone with bright effulgence like the sun,
  And sank in sorrow, where he might have soared
  Up to the loftiest peak of earthly joy
  In sweet foretaste of heavenly joys to come.
  Called from his flocks and herds in humble strait
  And made to rule a nation; high in Heaven
  The great Jehovah lighting up the way;
  On earth an upright Judge and Prophet wise
  Sent by the Lord to bend his steps aright;
  Sons dutiful and true; no speck to mar
  The noble grandeur of a proud career;
  Yet, from the rays that flickered o'er his path,
  Sent for his good, he wove the lightning shaft
  That seared his heart, e'en as the stalwart oak,
  Soaring in pride of pow'r, falls 'neath the flash,
  And lies a prostrate wreck. Like one of old,
  Who, wrestling with the orb whose far-off light
  Gave beauty to his waxen wings, upsoared
  Where angels dared not go, came to his doom,
  And fell a molten mass; so, tempting Heaven,
  Saul died the death of disobedient Pride
  And self-willed Folly—curses of mankind!
  Sins against God which wrought the Fall, and sent,
  As tempests moan along the listening night,
  A wail of mournful sadness drifting down
  The annals of the world: unearthly strains!
  Cries of eternal souls that know no rest.

Episode the First.

THE ISRAELITES DEMAND A KING, AND SAUL IS GIVEN TO RULE OVER THEM.

  "God save the King!" the Israelites exclaimed, (a)
  When, by the aged Prophet summoned forth
  To Mizpeh, all the tribes by lot declared
  That Saul should be their ruler. Since they left
  The land of Egypt and its galling stripes,
  Till then, the only living God had been
  Their King and Governor; and Samuel old,
  The last of Israel's Judges, when he brought
  The man they chose to be their future King,
  And said: "Behold the ruler of your choice!"
  Told them of loving mercies they for years
  Had from the great Jehovah's hand received,
  And mourned in sorrowing tones that God their Judge
  Should be by them rejected: and they cried
  "A King! give us a King—for thou art old (b)
  "And in those ways thou all thy life hast walked
  "Walk not thy sons: lucre their idol is—
  "And Judgment is perverted by the bribes
  "They take to stifle justice: give us, then,
  "A King to judge us. Other nations boast
  "Of such a chief—a King, give us a King!"
  So Saul became the crowned of Israel—
  The first great King of their united tribes.

Episode the Second.

SAUL DISAPPOINTS THE EXPECTATIONS OF JEHOVAH, AND IS VISITED WITH THE ALMIGHTY'S DISPLEASURE.

  Brave is the heart that beats with yearning throb
  Tow'rds highest hopes, when, wandering in the vale,
  Some snowy Alp gleams forth with flashing crown
  Of golden glory in the morning light.
  Brave is the heart that lovingly expands
  And longs the far-off splendour to embrace.
  Thus yearned the heart of Saul, when from his flocks
  The Prophet led him forth, and, pointing up
  Tow'rds Israel's crown, exclaimed: "See what the Lord
  Hath done for thee!" But Saul upon the throne
  Grew sorely dazed. Though brave the heart, the brain
  Swam in an ecstasy of wildering light—
  A helmless boat upon a troubled sea.
  Men nursed in gloom can rarely brook the sun;
  And many a life to sombre paths inured
  The sunshine of Prosperity hath quenched,
  As dewdrops glistening on the lowly sward
  Like priceless jewels ere the morning breaks,
  Melt into space when light and heat abound,
  As though they ne'er had been. Relentless fate!
  This ruthless law the world's wide ways hath fringed
  With wreckage of a host of peerless lives;
  And Saul is numbered 'mongst the broken drift.
  Saul, though the Lord's anointed, saw not God:
  But—curse of life! ingratitude prevailed.
  His faith waxed weak as days of trial came:
  And when, deserted by his teeming hosts
  At Gilgal, he the Prophet's priestly right
  In faithless haste assumed, the Prophet cried
  "The Lord hath said no son of thine shall reign
  O'er Israel!" (c) Yet, heedless of the voice
  Of warning which a patient God vouchsafed,
  With disobedience lurking in his heart,
  He strove to shield the King of Amalek—
  He whom the Lord commanded him to kill—
  Seizing his flocks and herds for selfish gain
  Beneath the garb of sacrificial faith—
  Sin so distasteful to the Lord that Saul
  Sat in the dark displeasure of his God. (d)
  And out from this displeasure, like the dawn
  From dusky night, the youthful David sprang—
  The Lord's anointed, yea, the Lord's beloved:
  Sweet Bard of Bethlehem! whose harp divine,
  Tuned to the throbbings of a guileless heart,
  Soothed the dark spirit of the sinful King,
  And woke his life to light and hope again, (e)
  But ah! the sling and stone his envy roused,
  And envy hate begat. 'Tis ever so:
  The honest fealty of a noble soul
  To all that's brave, and true, and good in life,
  Will meet malicious hindrance. So the King
  This brave young bard and warrior of the Lord
  In ruthless persecution sought to kill.
  Twice, with a true nobility of heart
  Which to the noble heart alone belongs,
  The slayer of Goliath stayed his hand
  When Saul lay at his mercy. "Take thy life;
  "Thou art the Lord's anointed, sinful, though,
  "And faithless to the truth as shifting sand!"
  Thus David spake, and went his weary way,
  An exile from the land he loved so well.
  So Saul had steeled his heart and set his face
  Against the living God, and thus he lay
  Beneath the great Jehovah's awful ban.

Episode the Third

SAUL, DESERTED BY THE ALMIGHTY, CONSULTS THE WITCH OF ENDOR, AND HIS FALL IS FORETOLD BY THE SPIRIT OF THE DEAD PROPHET.

  As o'er the earth a darkling cloud appears,
  And grows in blackness till the scathing shaft
  Comes forth with swelling thunder, so the cloud,
  Black unto bursting with the wrath divine,
  Hung o'er the head of Israel's erring King.
  The light of heavenly faith from him was gone,
  And life was full of dreary, dark despair.
  Outstretched along the plains of Shunem lay
  The army of the heathen Philistines—(f)
  A countless horde, at whose relentless head
  Achish, the King of Gath, with stern acclaim
  Breathed war against the Israelitish host.
  Heedless of help from God, the wretched Saul
  Had called his tribes together, and they swarmed
  Along the plains of Gilboa, whence they saw
  The mighty army of their heathen foe
  Lie like a drowsy panther in its lair
  With limbs all wakeful for the hungry leap.
  "Enquire me of the Lord!" the King had said,
  Communing with the doubtings of his heart.
  But answer came not. Dreams were dumb and dark—
  Unfathomed mysteries. No Urim spake;
  And Prophets wore the silence of the grave.
  So Saul, the King, disheartened and disguised,
  Went forth at night.(g) The rival armies lay
  Sleeping beneath the darksome dome of Heaven,
  And all was still, save when the ghostly wind
  Swept o'er the plains with melancholy moan.
  That night the shadowy shape of one long dead
  Stood face-to-face with Saul, in lonely cave,
  The Witch of Endor's haunt. Ah, me—the fall!
  To degradation deep that man hath slid
  Who 'gainst the Lord in stiff-necked folly strives
  Choosing the path of cabalistic wiles—
  The dark and turbid garniture of toads,
  And philters rank of necromantic knaves—
  Who spurns the hand which, by the light of Heaven,
  Points clear and straight along the spacious road
  Which angel feet have trod. Ah, me—the fall!
  And sad the fate of him who shuns the truth:
  Who, like the lonely Saul, eschews the light,
  And leagues with darkness—listening for the voice
  Of angels in abodes where devils dwell.
  So the dead Prophet and the erring King,
  By Heaven's own will, not by the witch's craft,
  Confront each other in the dark retreat.
  The dreamy shadow speaks: "Wherefore," it saith,
  "Dost thou disquiet me!" (h) And from the earth
  Came the sepulchral tones, which, floating up,
  Joined the weird meanings of the hollow wind,
  And swept in ghostly cadences away
  Like exiled souls in pain. And Saul replied;
  "I'm sore distressed: Alas! the living God
  "Averts His face and answers me no more;
  "What"—and the pleading voice, in trembling tones
  That might have won a stony heart to tears,
  Asks of the shadowy shape—"What shall I do!"
  And hollow voices seem to echo back
  The anguish-freighted words—"What shall I do!"
  'Twas hell's own mockery! The blistering heat—
  Like burning blast, hot and invisible—
  That scorched the heart of Saul, was but the breath
  Of Satan, gloating o'er the moral death
  Of him who, chosen of Jehovah, lay
  A victim to those foul Satanic wiles
  Which the sworn enemy of God had planned
  In inmost hate. "I cannot scale the height
  "Of Him 'gainst whom eternal enmity
  "I've sworn," it seemed to say: "but—soothing thought!
  "Deep in the hearts of mortals He hath named
  "To do His bidding, will I thrust my darts,
  "And through their wounds, as His ambassadors,
  "The spirit bruise of Him who sent them—thus!"
  And then again, as though his breaking heart
  Were cleft with red-hot blade, the voice of Saul
  Is heard in mortal anguish breathing out
  The soul-subduing tones—"What shall I do?"
  Dead silence intervenes; and then again
  The spirit of the Prophet slowly speaks:
  "To-morrow thou and thine," it faintly said,
  "Shalt be with me; and Israel's mighty host
  "Shall be the captives of the heathen foe!"
  The fateful answer smites the listener low,
  And utter darkness falls upon his life.

Episode the Fourth.

BATTLE OF GILBOA AND THE DEATH OF SAUL.

  The morrow came: the bloody fray began.
  The sun shone fierce and hot upon the scene.
  Lashed into fury like a raging sea
  The wrestling multitude for vantage strove
  With deadly chivalry. On Gilboa's mount
  The King looked forth and watched the sanguine strife,
  Clothed in the golden panoply of war.
  Upon his brow the stately monarch wore
  The crown of all the tribes of Israel,
  A-fire with jewels flashing in the sun
  In bitter mockery of his trampled heart.
  Noble in mien, yet, with a sorrowing soul,
  Anxious his gaze—for in the sweltering surge
  Three sons of Saul were battling with the rest;
  His first-born, Jonathan; Abinadab;
  And Melchi-shua—idols of his life!
  Around him like a hurricane of hail
  The pinioned shafts with aim unerring sped,
  Bearing dark death upon their feathery wings.
  The clashing sword its dismal carnage made
  As foe met foe; and flashing sparks out-flew
  As blade crossed blade with murderous intent.
  The outcry rose—"They fly! they fly!" The King
  Looked down upon the fray with trembling heart.
  The bloody stream along the valley ran,
  And chariots swept like eagles on the wind
  On deathly mission borne. The conflict fierce
  Waxed fiercer—fiercer still; the rain of gore
  Wetted the soddened plain, and arrows flew
  Thicker and faster through the darkening air.
  The barbëd spear, flung forth with stalwart arm,
  Sped like a whirlwind on its flight of death.
  Along the ranks the warrior's clarion call
  Inspired to valorous life the struggling hosts,
  And shouts of victory from contending hordes
  Blended with sorrowing moans of dying men.
  "Thy sons, O King!" a breathless herald cried,
  Fresh from the carnage, bowing low his head,
  Where Saul, heart-weary, watched the dreadful strife
  On Gilboa's height. "Thy sons, O mighty King!"
  The herald cried, and sank upon the ground
  By haste exhausted. Saul, with fitful start,
  Upraised the prostrate messenger. "My sons!
  "What of them? Speak!" he gasped, with startled look,
  "Dead!" moaned the herald, and an echo came,
  As though deep down in some sepulchral vault
  The word was spoken. From the heart of Saul
  That mournful echo came—so sad and low!
  "Dead! dead! Ah, woe is me!" he sadly sighed.
  "My sons—my best beloved! Woe! Woe—alas!"
  And as he spake, e'en while his head, gold-crowned,
  Bent low in pain beneath the crushing blow,
  An arrow from the foe his armour smote,
  And pierced his breast, already rent with grief.
  Then stepped with hurried tread a servant forth,
  And plucked the arrow from its cruel feast,
  Rending his robe to stanch the purple stream.
  "Heed not the wound!" exclaimed the King. "Too late!
  "Where Heaven smites, men's blows are light indeed."
  Then bending o'er his breast his kingly head
  He wept aloud: "Rejected of the Lord;
  "My sons among the slain; my valorous host
  "In bondage of the heathen—let me die!"
  So sobbed the King, as down the bloody plain
  The chariots of the foe came thundering on;
  And horsemen cleft the air in hot array—
  A mighty stream of chivalry and life!
  The Israelites had fled, and at their heels
  The roaring tumult followed like a storm
  That rolls from world to world. And through the blast
  Of warfare came a weak and wailing voice
  Moaning in utter anguish—"Let me die!"
  'Twas Saul the Anointed—Israel's fallen King:
  Crushed 'neath the hand of an offended God!
  "Lo!" cried the King, and raised his tearful eyes,
  "The Philistines are near, pierce thou my breast!"
  And, turning round, his kingly breast he bared,
  Bidding his armour-bearer thrust his sword
  Hilt-deep into his heart. "Better to die
  "By friendly hand," he cried, "than owe my death
  "To yonder hated victors. Quick! Thy sword!
  "Thrust deep and quickly!" But the faltering hand
  That held the sword fell nerveless. "Mighty King!
  "I dare not!" spake the trembling armourer.
  "Then by my own I die," exclaimed the King.
  And as he spake he poised the glittering blade
  Point upward from the earth, and moaning fell
  Upon the thirsty steel. The ruddy gush
  Came spurting through the armour that he wore,
  And steamed in misty vapour to the sky
  In voiceless testimony to the truth
  Of words once spoken by the living God!
  Aghast the faithful armour-bearer stood.
  "O, mighty King! I die with thee!" he said,
  And, falling on his sword, the blood of both
  Commingled, as from ghastly wounds it ran
  In trickling streamlets down Mount Gilboa's side. (i)
  As ebbs and flows the sea with troubled throb
  'Twixt shore and shore, or as the thistle-down
  Halts in the eddies of the summer wind
  In trembling doubt, so do the flickering souls
  Of dying men float fearingly between
  The earth and unseen worlds that lie beyond.
  So hung the life of Saul, whose bitter cup,
  Still at his lips, contained its bitterest dregs.
  Prostrate he lay, by bloody sword transfixed;
  A corpse his pillow; arms extended out,
  And body bent in agony of pain,
  The flame of life still fluttering at his heart
  A waning lamp. He heard the tumult swell.
  Bondage was worse than death. "They come! They come!"
  He moaned. "Stand ye upon my breast," he said,
  To one, a stranger, lingering near the spot,
  "And force the gurgling stream back on my heart,
  "To quench the life within me. Quick! They come!"
  The stranger did the cruel bidding. (j) Hark!
  "The King!" the foemen cry, and fiercely rusht
  Upon the Royal captive, who, till then,
  Had lain by them unseen. But while the shout
  Swept like a storm along the swelling ranks
  The soul of Saul went drifting through the dark,
  Like some fair ship with sails and cordage rent,
  Out from the stormy trials of his life,
  To tempt the terrors of an unknown sea.
  And then the cry of lamentation rose
  In Israel, and the Hebrew maidens hung
  Their speechless harps upon the willow branch,
  And mourned the loved and lost unceasingly.

(a) Nevertheless the people refused to obey the voice of Samuel; and they said, Nay, but we will have a King over us, that we also may be like all the nations. And Samuel said to all the people, "See ye him whom the Lord hath chosen." And all the people shouted and said, "God save the King!"—I SAMUEL, viii. and ix. 19, 20, 24.

(b) And it came to pass, when Samuel was old, that he made his sons judges over Israel. And his sons walked not in his ways, but turned aside after lucre, and took bribes, and perverted judgment.—I SAMUEL, viii., 1, 2.

(c) And Saul said, "Bring hither a burnt offering," and he offered the burnt offering. And Samuel came, and Saul went out to meet him. And Samuel said, "What hast thou done? Thou hast not kept the commandment of the Lord thy God which he commanded thee, and thy kingdom shall not continue."—I SAMUEL, xiii., 10, 14.

(d) And Samuel said, "The Lord sent thee, and said go and utterly destroy the sinners, the Amalekites. Wherefore didst thou not obey the voice of the Lord, but didst fly upon the spoil?" And Saul said unto Samuel, "The people took of the spoil, sheep and oxen, to sacrifice unto the Lord thy God at Gilgal." And Samuel said, "Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken than the fat of rams. For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, he hath also rejected thee."—I SAMUEL, xv,, 18, 23.

(e) And it came to pass, when the evil spirit from God was upon Saul, that David took an harp, and played with his hand. So Saul was refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him.—I SAMUEL, xvi., 23.

(f) And the Philistines gathered themselves together, and came and pitched in Shunem; and Saul gathered all Israel together, and they pitched in Gilboa.—I SAMUEL, xxviii., 4.

(g) Then said Saul unto his servants, "Seek me a woman that hath a familiar spirit, that I may go to her and enquire of her." And his servants said to him, "Behold, there is a woman that hath a familiar spirit at Endor." And Saul disguised himself, and came to the woman by night. And he said, "I pray thee, divine unto me by the familiar spirit, and bring him up whom I shall name of thee."—I SAMUEL, xxviii., 7, 8.

(h) And Samuel said to Saul, "Why hast thou disquieted me, to bring me up?" And Saul answered, "I am sore distressed, for the Philistines make war against me, and God is departed from me, and answereth me no more. Therefore I have called thee, that thou mayest make known unto me what I shall do." And Samuel said, "Because thou obeyedst not the voice of the Lord, nor executedst not his fierce wrath upon Amalek, therefore hath the Lord done this thing unto thee this day. To-morrow shalt thou and thy sons be with me; and the Lord also shall deliver the host of Israel into the hand of the Philistines." Then Saul fell straightway all along on the earth.—I SAMUEL, xxviii., 15, 20.

(i) And the battle went sore against Saul, and the archers hit him, and he was sore wounded of the archers. Then said Saul unto his armour-bearer, "Draw thy sword, and thrust me through therewith, lest these uncircumcised come and thrust me through." But his armour-bearer would not, therefore Saul took a sword and fell upon it. And when his armour-bearer saw that Saul was dead, he fell likewise upon his sword, and died with him.—I SAMUEL, xxxi., 3, 5.

(j) And David said unto the young man, "How knowest thou that Saul and Jonathan his son be dead?" And the young man that told him said: "As I happened by chance upon Mount Gilboa, behold, Saul leaned upon his spear: and lo! the chariots and horsemen followed hard after him. And he said unto me, Stand, I pray thee, upon me, and slay me; for anguish is come upon me, because my life is yet whole within me. So I stood upon him, and slew him, because I was sure that he could not live, after that he was fallen."—II SAMUEL, i., 5, 10.

PALM SUNDAY IN WALES.

FLOWERING SUNDAY.

PRIZE POEM.

WREXHAM NATIONAL EISTEDDFOD, 1876.

Fifteen competed for the prize of 5 pounds, and a silver medal for the best English poem, never before published, upon any distinctively Welsh subject. Mr. Osborne Morgan, M.P., Mr. Trevor Parkins, and the Rev. Ll. Thomas adjudicated. The latter gave the award.

  Out by the hedgerows, along by the steep;
    Through the meadows; away and away,
  Where the daisies, like stars, through the green grass peep,
    And the snowdrops and violets, waking from sleep,
  Look forth at the dawning day.

  Down by the brooklet—by murmuring rills,
    By rivers that glide along;
  Where the lark in the heavens melodiously trills,
    And the air the wild blossom with perfume fills,
  The shimmering leaves among.

  Through the still valley; along by the pool,
    Where the daffodil's bosom of gold
  So shyly expands to the breezes cool
  As they murmur, like children coming from school,
    In whisperings over the wold.

  In the dark coppice, where fairies dwell,
    Where the wren and the red-breast build;
  Along the green lanes, through dingle and dell,
  O'er bracken and brake, and moss-covered fell,
    Where the primroses pathways gild.

  Hither and thither the tiny feet
    Of children gaily sped,
  In the cool grey dawn of the morning sweet,
  Plucking wild flowers—an offering meet
    To garnish the graves of the dead.

  Out from the beaten pathway, quaint and white,
    The village church—a crumbling pile—is seen;
    It stands in solitude midst mounds of green
  Like ancient dame in moss-grown cloak bedight.

  The mantling ivy clings around its form—
    The patient growth of many and many a year.
    As though a gentle hand had placed it there
  To shield the tottering morsel from the storm.

  A sombre cypress rears its mournful head
    Above the porch, through which, in days gone by,
    Young men and maidens sped so hopefully,
  That now lie slumbering with the silent dead:

  The silent dead, that round the olden pile
    Crumble to dust as though they ne'er had been.
    Whose graven annals, writ o'er billows green,
  Though voiceless, tell sad stories all the while.

  And as they speak in speechless eloquence,
    The waving shadows of the cypress fall
    In spectral patches on the quaint old wall,
  Nodding in wise and ghostly reticence

  In silent sanction at the stories told
    By each decrepit, wizen-featured stone,
    That seems to muse, like ancient village crone
  Belost in thought o'er memories strange and old.

  Outside the stunted boundary, a row
    Of poplars tall—beside whose haughty mien
    And silky rustlings of whose robes of green
  The lowly church still humbler seems to grow.

  A-near the lych-gate in the crumbling wall,
    A spreading oak, grotesque and ancient, stands,
    Like aged monk extending prayerful hands
  In silent benediction over all,

  'Twas early morn: the red sun glinted o'er
    The hazy sky-line of the far-off hill:
    Below, the valley slept so calm and still—
  A misty sea engirt by golden shore.

  Out in the dim and dreamy distance rose
    A spectral range of alp-like scenery—
    Mountain on mountain, far as eye could see,
  Their foreheads white and hoar with wintry snows.

  And as I leaned the low-built wall upon
    That shut the little churchyard from the road,
    Children and maidens into Death's abode,
  With wild flow'rs laden, wandered one by one.

  And in their midst, stooping and white with age,
    Rich in their wealth of quaint old village lore,
    Came ancient dames, with faces furrowed o'er,
  That told of griefs in life's long pilgrimage.

  The sun is rising now: the poplar tips
    Are touched with liquid light: the gravestones old,
    And hoary church, are flushed with fringe of gold,
  As though embraced by angel's hallowed lips.

  And with the morning sunshine children roam
    To place wild flowers where the loved ones slept;
    O'er father, mother, sister—long since swept
  Away by death—with blossoms sweet they come.

  Silent reminders of abiding love!
    What tender language from each petal springs!
    Affection's tribute! Heart's best offerings!
  Wanderers, surely, from the realms above!

  For heart-to-heart, and life-to-life, had been
    The loves of those who were and those who are;
    Till death had severed them—O, cruel bar!
  Leaving a dark and unknown stream between.

  And on that stream, in loving fancy tossed,
    Each faithful heart its floral tribute threw,
    As though the hope from out the tribute grew
  To bridge the gulf the one beloved had crossed.

  Near yonder grave there stands a widowed life:
    Husband and son beneath the grave-stone rest:
    Some laurels tell, by tender lip caressed,
  The changeless love of mother and of wife.

  And o'er the bright green leaflets as they lie
    She scatters snowdrops with their waxen leaves,
    And all the while her troubled bosom heaves
  In tenderness, with many a sorrowing sigh.

  Out from the light, to where the cypress shade
    In mournful darkness falls, a figure crept;
    And as she knelt, the morning breezes swept
  A cloud of hair about her drooping head.

  Her feet were small and slender, bare and white—
    White as the daisy-fringe on which she trod;
    Like shimmering snowdrops in the greening sod,
  Or glow-worms glistening in the Summer night.

  And as deep down in gloomy chasms seen
    By those up-looking, stars in daylight shine,
    So shone the beauty of her face divine
  In the dark shadows of the cypress green.

  Her girlish hands a primrose wreath enwove,
    With fingers deft, and eyes with tears bedimmed:
    No lovelier face the painter's art e'er limned,
  No poet's thought e'er told of sweeter love

  Than that young mother's, as, with tender grace,
    She kissed the chaplet ere she laid it down
    Upon a tiny hillock, earthy-brown—
  Of first and only child the resting place.

  And then the few stray blossoms that were left
    She kissed and strewed upon the little mound—
    Looked lingering back towards the sacred ground,
  As from the shade she bore her heart bereft.

  As gentle ripples, from the side we lave
    Of placid lake, will reach the other side,
    So, o'er Death's river—silent, dark, and wide—
  Blossoms may bear the kiss that mother gave.

  Or, if in fervent faith she deemed it so,
    The thought to joyless lives a pleasure brings,
    And who shall tell, where doting fondness clings,
  The loss which hearts bereaved can only know?

  And who shall doubt that to such love is given,
    Borne upward, clothed in perfume to the sky,
    The pow'r to reach, in death's great mystery,
  Lost hearts, and add a bliss to those of Heaven?

  Other sad pilgrims came. A mother here
    A duteous daughter mourns, whose days had been
    A ceaseless blessing—an oasis green
  On life's enfevered plain: a brooklet clear,

  That ran the meadows of glad lives along,
    Till, like a stream that meanders to the sea,
    In the dark Ocean of Eternity
  Lost was their source of laughter, light, and song.

  And yonder, clothed in darksome silence, grieves
    A loving daughter near a mother's tomb—
    Down by the stunted wall in willow-gloom
  And shadows thrown by sombre cypress leaves:

  And as, in life, the waving kerchief speaks
    The words of friends departing which the heart
    Is all too full to utter e're we part
  For ever, so the sorrowing daughter seeks

  In thought one recollection more to wave
    To one long dead; and asks in speechless woe
    Primrose and snowdrop on the mound below
  To bear love's messages beyond the grave!

  And in the golden sunshine children come
    With prattling tongue and winsome, rosy face—
    Like blossoms flowering in a lonely place—
  And lay their tributes o'er each narrow home

  Where lies the helpless beacon of their lives
    In darkness quencht—gone ere their infant thought
    Could realise the loss which Death had wrought—
  The stab the stern Destroying Angel gives.

  And o'er each silent grave Love's tributes fall—
    The primrose, cowslip, gentle daffodil—
    The snow-drop, and the tender daisy—till
  God's acre sleeps beneath a flowery pall.

  And now the sun in all its glory came
    And lit the world up with a light divine,
    Casting fresh beauty o'er each sacred shrine:
  Breathing on all things an inspiring flame.

  As if the God of Light had bade it be,
    In sweet reward for pious rite performed;
    As if, with human love and fondness charmed,
  The Lord had smiled with love's benignity.

  For not to this old churchyard where I stand
    Is audience of the dead, through flow'rs, confined
    A nation's heart—a nation's love—combined,
  Make it the sweet observance of the land.

  In humble cot—in proud patrician halls,
    The Floral Festival fills every breast;
    And o'er the grass, where'er the loved ones rest,
  The lowly flow'r with choice exotic falls.

  And as they fall upon the sacred spot,
    Sacred to every heart that strews them there,
    They seem to sing in voices low and clear:
  "Though gone for evermore—forgotten not!

  "Though never more—still evermore—above
    "Eternal will their deathless spirits reign.
    "No more until above to meet again:
  "Till then send up sweet messages of love."

  So sang the blossoms with their odorous breath—
    Or so in fancy sang they unto me;
    "No more—yet evermore, eternally!
  "Though lost, alas! remembered still in death!"

ELEGY

ON THE LATE CRAWSHAY BAILEY, ESQ.,

"THE IRON KING."

PRIZE POEM:

ABERGAVENNY EISTEDDFOD, 1874.

The programme opened with a competition for the best English Elegy on the late Crawshay Bailey, Esq., for which a prize of 10 pounds was given, and a bardic chair, value 5 pounds, by Mr. William Lewis. There were twelve competitors, and each composition was confined to a limit of 200 lines.

  Sadly the sea, by Mynwy's rugged shore,
    Moans for the dead in many a mournful strain.
    A voice from hearts bereft cries "Come again;"
  But wavelets whisper softly, "Never more!"

  The restless winds take up the solemn cry,
    As though—an age of sorrow in each breath—
    The words, "O, come again," could call back Death
  From the far-off, unseen Eternity.

  "Our dwellings darkened when his life went out:
    "We stand in cold eclipse, for gone the light
    "Which made our cottage-homes so warm and bright;
  "And shadows deepen o'er the world without.

  "Come back—come back!" Upon the mournful wind
    These words fall weirdly as they float along,
    Melting the soul to tears: for lo! the song
  Rises from hearts that seek but ne'er will find:

  Save one more billow on the sea of graves;
    One joyaunt voice the fewer in life's throng;
    One hand the less to help the world along;
  One Hero more 'mongst earth's departed Braves.

  For who that in life's battle-field could fight
    As he has fought, whose painless victories
    Transcended war's heroic chivalries,
  Could in his country's heart claim nobler height?

  None may the niche of glory haplier grace,
    None may the crown of greatness proudlier wear,
    Than he upon whose tomb the silent tear
  Falls slowly down from many a drooping face.

  Faces whose hard and rugged outlines show
    Life's daily struggle—O, how bravely fought!
    Faces to which the only gladness brought
  Came from the Friend who yonder lieth low.

  Let us in mournful retrospect commune
    O'er what that still cold heart and brain have won:
    A hymn of life in lispings first begun,
  Ending in harmony's most perfect tune.

  As comes the sun from out the darkling-night,
    And strikes, as did the patriarch of old,
    Life's barren rocks, which flush with green and gold,
  And pour out waters glad with living light,

  So, crowned with blessings, in the far-off days,
    Like Midas, Mynwy's monarch touched the earth,
    Wrought golden plenty where once reigned a dearth,
  And raised an empire he alone could raise.

  No service his, of slavery, to bind
    With tyrant fancy vassals to his will:
    All hearts beat quick with sympathetic thrill
  For one who loved the humblest of their kind.

  His kingdom rang with fealty from the free—
    Such blessed faith as faith itself ensures.
    His reign alone that sway which e'er secures
  A subject's true and trustful sympathy.

  So love men's love begat in bounteous flow;
    It blossomed round his path as flowers bloom,
    Filling his life with such a rare perfume
  Of heart's devotion kings can seldom know.

  His master-mind, with almost boundless reach,
    Planned work so vast that mankind, wondering still,
    Could scarcely compass his gigantic will
  Which grasped great things as ocean clasps the beach.

  His home of homes was where the Cyclops forged
    Their bolts, as though for Jove to hold his own:
    His fondest study where, through ages grown,
  The silent ores old Cambria's mountains gorged.

  Mammoth machines that, with incessant whirl,
    Rolled onward ever on their ponderous way:
    Gigantic marvels, deafening in their play,
  And swift, industrious, never-ending swirl.

  All these he loved, as men alone can love
    The things that win their love: to him they shone
    Instinct with living beauty all their own,
  Touched with a light divine as from above.

  For them, and with them, toiled he day by day
    In true companionship: they were his Friends,
    Bound by the tie whose influence never ends,
  By faithful bonds which never pass away.

  And as the sunflower looks towards the light
    All through the livelong day, so did his heart
    Ne'er from this bond of love play recreant part,
  But every moment beat that heart aright;

  A heart so large and true—true to the core;
    So spacious that the great might enter in;
    Yet none too poor its sympathy to win,
  And every throb a pleasure at their door.

  And so, through all the toilful hours of thought,
    He reared a world-wide pinnacle of fame,
    Whose summit reached, his heart was still the same,
  Undazed by splendours which his hand had wrought.

  Long stood he on the topmost peak of praise
    From tongues of men, as mountains tipped with snow
    Stand with their lofty foreheads all a-glow,
  Lit up with beauty by the sun's bright rays.

  His life was climaxed by a kinglier dower
    Than even kings themselves can hope to reach;
    No grander, prouder lesson can we teach,
  Than win great things by self-inherent power.

  Brighter examples manhood cannot show,
    Than with true hand, brave heart, and sleepless mind,
    To build up name and fortune 'midst their kind,
  From grains and drops—as worlds and oceans grow.

  So, in the rare meridian of his time,
    In pride of conscious strength, he stood alone,
    A king of kings upon his Iron Throne,
  Wrought out from humble step to height sublime,

  As shadows lengthen in the setting sun,
    So spread the stature of his later life,
    Which, like Colossus, o'er earth's busy strife,
  Towered grandly till that life's last sand was run.

  And so he passed away, as meteors die;
    Leaving a trail of splendour here on earth
    To mark the road he took in virtuous worth,
  In sterling truth, and rare integrity.

  These are the living landmarks he has left:
    Bright jewels in his earthly sojourn set,
    Whose brilliance seen, those looking ne'er forgot:
  A glorious heritage for friends bereft.

  Such gems as those who mourn may still adore,
    Whose glistening rays men's footsteps lead aright
    Through life's dark way, like glow-worms in the night,
  Or angel-glintings from the eternal shore.

  As round decaying flowers perfume clings
    In silent tribute to the blossoms dead,
    So memory, brooding o'er his spirit fled,
  Nought but the sweetest recollection brings.

ELEGIES

NASH VAUGHAN EDWARDES VAUGHAN.

(OF RHEOLA.)

DIED SEPTEMBER 18TH, 1868. (a)

I.

  Let bard on battle-field, in sounding verse,
    Proclaim to distant time the warrior-deed
  That makes a hero, whose triumphal hearse
    Rolls graveward o'er a thousand hearts that bleed
  In widowed agony. Let golden lyre
    Of regal Court engaged in worldly strife
  Clothe princely foibles with poetic fire,
    And crown with fame a king's ignoble life.
  Let chroniclers of Camp and Court proclaim
  A Warrior's greatness, and a Monarch's fame.
  Be mine with verse the tomb of one to grace
  Whose nobler deeds deserve a nobler place.

II.

  The lofty fane that cleaves the glowing sky,
    And heavenward points with golden finger-tip—
  Structure whence flows the sacred harmony
    Of prayer and praise from Christian heart and lip:
  The ranging corridors where—blest the task—
    'Tis ours to soothe the fever and the pain
  Of wounded natures, who, despairing, ask
    For healing touch that makes them whole again.
  These are the monuments that proudly stand
  On corner stones—fruit of his princely hand:
  Homes for the poor, wound-stricken to the sod;
  And altars for the worship of his God.

III.

  The blazing meteor glares along the sky;
    The thunder shakes the mountain with its roar;
  But meteors for a moment live—then die:
    The thunder peals—and then is heard no more.
  The most refreshing rains in silence fall;
    The most entrancing tones are sweet and low;
  The greatest, mightiest truths, are simplest all;
    Life's dearest light comes forth in voiceless flow;
  E'en so his heart and hand were ever found
  Flinging in mute beneficence around
  The germs of Truth and Charity combined,
  To heal the heart and purify the mind.

(a) The life of Mr. Vaughan was one daily round of charitable deeds, in furtherance of religion and social amelioration. His munificent donation to the Swansea Hospital, offered conditionally, led to the enlarged foundation of that noble institution, which stands a silent tribute to his memory. This Elegy was written at the request of the late Mr. John Williams, proprietor of the Cambrian, Swansea, who, in the letter requesting me to write the verses, said: "Such noble qualities as Mr. Vaughan possessed deserve everything good which human tongue can say of them."

MONODY.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. NICHOLL CARNE. (a)

  Down the long vista of historic years
    I look, and through the dusky haze descry
    Funereal pomp, and Royal pageantry,
  Gracing the tombs of queens, and kings, and peers.

  I see on marble monuments deep hewn
    The name and fame of mighty and of great,
    Who lie in granite effigy and state,
  Waiting the summons to the last Tribune.

  But 'mongst the hero-host that shrouded sleep
    'Neath purple banner and engraven stone,
    Death hath not numbered one among his own
  More regal-souled than she for whom we weep.

  Though a right Royal lineage she could claim,
    Proudly descendant from a Cambrian King;
    She was content to let her virtues bring
  Something more noble than a Royal name.

  Her's was no sceptered life in queenly state:
    Yet queen she was, in all that makes a Queen;
    No deeds heroic marked her life serene:
  Yet heroine she in all that makes us great.

  Through all the phases of a blameless life
    She lingered round the threshold of the poor:
    Where brighter scenes less noble minds allure,
  Her's was the joy to move 'midst martyr-strife.

  To watch where hearts, by poverty o'ercome,
    Lay weak and wailing; and to point above,
    With words of hope, of comfort, and of love,
  Till brighter, happier, grew each cottage home.

  And wine and oil fell plenteous from her hand,
    To cheer the wounded on life's weary way:
    While, for the human wrecks that round her lay,
  Her beacon-light beamed o'er the darkling strand.

  Her's was a life of Love; then, of deep griefs,
    We'll rear a monument unto her name,
    More leal and lasting than the chiselled fame
  Of mighty monarchs or heroic chiefs.

  And see! the virtues of the parent stem
    Break forth in blossom o'er the branching tree:
    Long may such fair, such bright fruition be,
  Of those bereaved their proudest diadem.

  With sheltering arms—with hearts for ever green,
    By love united, may they still unite;
    So shall they gladden still the sainted sight
  Of one who is not, but who once has been.

(a) Mrs. Carne, relict of the late Rev. R. Nicholl Carne, of Dimlands Castle, and mother of R. C. N. Carne, Esq., Nash Manor, and of J. W. N. Carne, Esq., Dimlands and St. Donat's Castles, died November 28th, 1866, at Dimlands, in the 94th year of her age. Deceased could claim a Royal Welsh lineage, being the 34th in unbroken descent from Ynyr, King of Gwent and Dyfed. Her long life was distinguished by unostentatious acts of charity and good works.

ELEGIAC STANZAS

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. PASCOE ST. LEGER GRENFELL, MAESTEG HOUSE, SWANSEA. DIED JANUARY 8TH, 1868.

  This world heroic souls can little spare
    That battle bravely with life's every ill:
  When days are dark that saintly smiles can wear,
    And all around with heavenly glory fill.

  This world can little spare the Christian heart
    That holds with tearful faith the hand of God
  With never-yielding grasp; and takes full part
    In works divine on earth's degenerate sod.

  This world can little spare the gentle voice
    That woos the sinful from the dreamy road
  Of human frailties, making hearts rejoice,
    Relieving souls of many a bitter load.

  This world can little spare the bounteous hand
    That Plenty plants where Want oft grew before;
  Raising the latchet as with angel-wand,
    To cheer the darksome cottage of the poor.

  Virtues like these the world can little spare
    That fleck life's road like snowdrops in the Spring,
  Making it beautiful; and, virtue rare!
    Silent and heedless of the bliss they bring.

  But if the world should weep, how must they mourn
    For whom her goodness bloomed a thousand-fold
  More sweet in tender love? E'en as the dawn
    Crowns all it looks on with a fringe of gold.

  So did affection gird in rosy might
    The home which by her presence was adorned,
  Where came an aching void: for lo! their light
    Was quencht by death and in the tomb in-urned.

  Not quencht. Ah, no! For Heaven's eternal gates
    Flew open, and in robes which angels wear
  Her sainted spirit entered; and it waits
    For those that were beloved to join it there.