It seem'd like Sacrilege to break Those Meditations deep; Those Glorious Dreams of Happiness, From thoughts profound and sweet. Yet would my shadow on the wall Then he would talk of Shakespeare, Of Plato, Aristotle, Milton, Colossi for all Time. Anon, my Faith was strengthened He told how God had kept him And how a sweet Communion, A Peace that passeth utt'rance, Had long been his through Trust in Him, So often light esteemed; Who from all base and worldly thoughts His heart had gently weaned: And knit His Presence there instead Of perfect Life above. Thus far removed from busy Towns, He breathed the Air so fresh and pure All Nature was his Open Book, He heard Him in the rustling breeze, The thunder and the rain, When brooklets swell to roaring seas, And desolate the Plain. And thus he shrined Him in his heart, And every Day drew nigh Toward that Land where none need part, Eternal in the Sky. The original of this Poem is Mr. William Bogg, of Brawby. He was formerly Assistant-Master in Rochester Cathedral School, and afterwards at the Grammar School, York; then with a Mr. Naggs, a well-known and respected Master of a School at Scarborough; and, finally, for a short time he took charge of the Brawby School previous to its coming under Government Inspection. The old gentleman is hale and hearty, though ninety years old, and, with the exception of Hearing, has the use of all his Faculties. He is a sincere Christian, and I would there were many such. He is a splendid Greek and Latin scholar, and is fond of Reading and Translating his favourite Authors in these Languages. He also loves to make Copies of Engravings, and with a common blacklead pencil can wonderfully imitate them. The Bible and the Poetry of British Bards are also beloved by him. I often go and have a chat with him, writing down on a slate what I wish to say. This Poem was composed at Brawby, March 8-13, 1886, since which time Mr. Bogg has diedSeptember 23, 1893, aged ninety-one. I happened to be at Babbacombe at the time having my Holidays. SNOWDROPS. SNOWDROPS, with your Snow-white Bells, All nodding in the Wind; How beautiful amid the dells Thy fairy forms we find ! While yet the keen, cold wintry Gale From many a sere and leafless Vale, And barren lonely Hill. Each speaking of returning Spring, And death of Winter keen; When feathery minstrels sweetly sing, And every copse is green. Fresh growing by the Hawthorn Hedge, Bright clust'ring in a row ; Thou dost its dark-brown colour edge, With line of virgin snow. Sweet peeping by the Cottage Door, Or in God's Acre lone, Where rest alike the rich and poor, Fair Emblem of a Life to come! When these our Earthly Days are done, Dear Snow-flowers of our Youth, Would we were Pure as thou! Then Innocence with Love and Truth Would smile upon our brow. INSCRIPTION FOR A DIAL. VITA similis est umbrae Supra horologium conjecta; Nox tandem venit, Dies nobis consumpta est; TRANSLATED. LIFE is like the Shadow Upon a Dial thrown; Night comes at length, Our Day is spent ; Behold, the Shadow's flown! Composed about the year 1888, and translated for me into atin by dear old Mr. William Bogg, who was then alive. AN INCIDENT. ONE wild, rough day in March, And view Dame Nature in her mood, |