Part 9 (1/2)

Here, too, on meadows green which dewy glisten Cl.u.s.ter sweet violets nodding 'neath the breeze, And coronals of light With golden splendour bright Their fragile heads adorn, which seem to listen To merry birds that sing amid the trees.

O happy spot! I fain would linger ever About thy honeyed stillness, mere benign.

Of gazing on thy face I weary never, As fair and full of grace As slumbering infant's face, Or angel features which yet purer s.h.i.+ne.

Thy crystal depth with music strange resoundeth, Heard but by those to whom pure souls are given; For unto all on earth Who win the second birth, The whole round world with hidden strings resoundeth, Which endless praise distil to G.o.d in heaven.

A Morning Greeting.

Arise, my beloved! the birds' merry chorus Is heard 'mid the bourgeoning buds of the wold Which smiles on the breast of the valley, while o'er us The sun tips the dewladen branches with gold.

There comes from the meadows the scent of the clover, The banks are all hidden by daisies from sight, Each nook with bright yellow the primroses cover, The trees in the orchards are curtained with white.

O rouse thee, my darling! come look at the swallow Which over the dingle is flying at will; And hark to the song of the thrush in the hollow, And cuckoo's clear cry on the side of the hill.

On high in the heavens the glad lark is trilling The song which he lays at the footstool of morn; My heart with strange gladness his music is thrilling, As down from the sky by the breezes 'tis borne.

Arise, my beloved! the lambs are all springing In frolic enjoyment the meadows among; The stream through the valley its glad song is singing, And the young day laughs lightly its waters along.

A robe of bright azure the clear sky is wearing And bathed are the mountains in myriads of rays, The woodland its harp for the noon is preparing And hark, from its strings bursts a torrent of praise.

O rouse thee, my darling! Come, let us be going, So soft is the breeze and so fragrant the air, New health and new strength through our veins will be flowing, And sorrow will vanish and sadness and care!

O banish the charms with which sloth would ensnare us, Far purer the joy in the suns.h.i.+ne that lurks, All nature her pinions is spreading to bear us, And show us her Maker, revealed in His works.

ROBERT OWEN.

Robert Owen was born near Barmouth March 30th, 1858. The son of a farmer, he was fortunate in attracting the attention of a French gentleman who had taken up his residence in the village and who taught him French, German and Italian. He qualified as a teacher, but the seeds of consumption shewed themselves early, and he sailed, in 1879, for Australia, only to die near Harrow, Victoria, Oct. 23, 1885. His works have never yet been published--if, indeed, he wrote much. The _Llenor_, No. 5 (January 1896), has an interesting article on him.

De Profundis.

Strait, strait and narrow is the vale!