The influence of that loving act,

Felt to this very hour!—

I took her hand, I could not speak!
And pressed it with mine own,—
Our eyes meanwhile in volumes spoke,—
Though tongue-speech there was none.

A little incident, that's all!

Perchance I hear you say;

And yet 'tis graved upon my heart,
E'en to this present day ;-

Though twenty years have since gone by

Since that auspicious eve;

Yet memory with matchless charm,

Around me still doth weave

The items of that youthful time !—
The events of that day!—

The picture of that maiden fair !—
Who since hath passed away :
Ay! on her grave hath daisies grown
For many a changeful year,-
Yet in my heart I still do own
Her memory most dear ;--
For incidents which thus unite

The dear ones whom we love,
Are treasured, and their influence felt
From earth to heaven above.

To me she was God's messenger !
Who taught the power of love,—
Her very presence causing peace,
And thoughts of things above;
And in the years which since have flown
From youth down to this hour;
By various acts my life hath shown
That influence still has power,—
To check the evil of my moods!-
To cheer me when I'm sad !---
To elevate and raise my thoughts !—
And make my heart feel glad.

Thus often do my thoughts turn back
Towards the wild Land's End !—
Towards St. Sennen's quaint old church !—
Where rests my little friend.

Her body rests there, not the soul !—

For that were far too bright

To sparkle anywhere, or rest,

Save in the halls of light!—
Amid the treasures of the King!—
The jewels of His throne !-
There only may it find a rest!-
Yea, there, and there alone!—

Oh! who can estimate the power
For very good or ill

A beauteous being makes each hour
By virtue of her will?

See, then, ye daughters of our land,
Ye use that power for good!—
So shall ye reap, on either hand,
A harvest free from flood!—.
Yea, harvest in the springtide,-
The golden days of youth ;—
Then, harvest in the summer-time,
To give it further proof.-
Next, harvest in the autumn,

The falling of the year ;—

When ye are getting olden,

And winter draweth near.

Thus, as the seasons pass thee,

The good deeds thou hast done

Shall come again to bless thee,

And brighten as the sun!

Shall lighten up thy journey,

And cheer thy lonely road,—

Illuminate death's valley,—

And guide thee home to God.

Composed at Brawby during February, 1896, to the cherished memory of my dear friend and schoolmate, M. V. T., who departed from this earthly life September 27, 1876, aged seventeen years.

FILEY BRIGG.

UPON the rugged Yorkshire coast,
And shelt'ring Filey Bay,
There is a jagged tongue of rocks,
Which stretches right away

Far out amid the billows;

That ever round it roar :Such is the famous Filey Brigg! Which centuries have wore

From out the ever-crumbling cliffs,

With sleet, and snow, and rain; And frosts of many winters,

And waves of hurricane.

One morn I went to Filey,

Just when the tide was low, And after looking through the town, Went on the sands below.— The sands and bay of Filey

Are worth the while to see :A crescent path, a golden plain, Set off exquisitely!

With crested waves to seaward,

And rugged cliffs around, Whilst overhead the seagulls

Their shrilly cries do sound;

But the Brigg's the chief attraction,

As everyone doth know,Therefore my steps instinctively Soon thither turned to go. And as I went I passed

A group of fisher-folk,

Whose high-topped boots and oilskins

Their calling well bespoke.

The fishermen of Filey

Are pious, hardy men!

And in their cobbles bravely

'Gainst wind and wave contend;

Yet fishing is precarious,

For oft the weather's rough,— Therefore the summer visitors

Are welcomed glad enough.
And shouldst thou go to Filey,
Before thy visit ends,

No doubt among the fisher-folk
You'll have a lot of friends.

Thus mused I as I sauntered

Beside the sounding sea,

Till presently I wandered

Just where I wished to be.

It was a novel station,

Far out upon the Brigg,