TENNYSON.

  GILBERT the Good!  Title, though high, well earned
  By him through whose rare nature brightly burned
      The fire of purity,
  Undimmed, unflickering, like some altar flame
  Sky-pointing ever.  Friend, what thought of blame
      Hath coldest heart for thee?

  A knightly-priest or priestly-knight wert thou,
  Man of the radiant eye and reverent brow;
      Chivalry closely knit
  With fervent faith in thee indeed were blent;
  Thought upon high ideals still intent,
      And a most lambent wit.

  Serene, though with a power of scathing scorn
  For all things mean or base.  Sorrow long borne,
    Though bowing, soured not thee. 
  Bereaved, health-broken, still that patient smile
  Wreathed the pale lips which never greed or guile
      Shaped to hypocrisy.

  A saintly-hearted wit, a satirist pure,
  Mover of mirth spontaneous as sure,
      And innocent as mad;
  Incongruous freak and frolic phantasy
  Were thy familiar spirits, quickening glee
      And wakening laughter glad.

  Dainty as Ariel, yet as Puck profuse
  Of the “preposterous,” was that wit, whose use
      Was ever held “within
  The limits of becoming mirth.”  His whim
  Never shy delicacy’s glance could dim,
      Or move the cynic grin.

  But that fate’s hampering hand lay on him long
  He might have won in drama and in song
      A more enduring name. 
  But he is gone, the gentle, loyal, just,
  Whence all these things fall earthward with the dust
      Of fleeting earthly fame.

  Gone from our hoard, gone from the home he loved! 
  With what compassion are his comrades moved
      For those who sit alone
  With memories of him!  Gracious memories all! 
  A thought to lighten, like that flower, his pall,
      And hush love’s troubled moan.

  Farewell, fine spirit!  To be owned thy friend
  Was something to illume the unwelcome end
      Of comradeship below. 
  A loving memory long our board will grace,
  In fancy, with that sweet ascetic face. 
      That brow’s benignant glow.

* * * * *

RHYME AT RHYL.

(BY A LISTENING LAYMAN.)

  If Cleric Congresses could only care
    A little less for the mere Church and Steeple,
  Parochial pomp and power in lion’s share,
    And have one aim—­to purify the People,
  They need not shrink from Disestablishment,
    Or any other secular enormity;
  Unselfish love of Man destroys Dissent,
    True Charity provokes no Nonconformity.

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO.  XI.