University of Virginia Library

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187

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.

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188

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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189

Of holy thoughts he spake, and purpose high,
Dead in his heart, and yet like spectres stirring;
Of Hope that could not either live or die,
And Faith confused with self-abhorred demurring.

How beautiful the feet that from afar
Bring happy tidings of eternal good:
Then kiss the feet that so bewildered are;
They cannot farther go where fain they would.