III.

The blazing meteor glares along the sky; The thunder shakes the mountain with its roar; But meteors for a moment live--then die: The thunder peals--and then is heard no more. The most refreshing rains in silence fall; The most entrancing tones are sweet and low; The greatest, mightiest truths, are simplest all; Life's dearest light comes forth in voiceless flow; E'en so his heart and hand were ever found Flinging in mute beneficence around The germs of Truth and Charity combined, To heal the heart and purify the mind.

(_a_) The life of Mr. Vaughan was one daily round of charitable deeds, in furtherance of religion and social amelioration. His munificent donation to the Swansea Hospital, offered conditionally, led to the enlarged foundation of that noble institution, which stands a silent tribute to his memory. This Elegy was written at the request of the late Mr. John Williams, proprietor of the _Cambrian_, Swansea, who, in the letter requesting me to write the verses, said: "Such noble qualities as Mr. Vaughan possessed deserve everything good which human tongue can say of them."

MONODY.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. NICHOLL CARNE. (_a_)

Down the long vista of historic years I look, and through the dusky haze descry Funereal pomp, and Royal pageantry, Gracing the tombs of queens, and kings, and peers.

I see on marble monuments deep hewn The name and fame of mighty and of great, Who lie in granite effigy and state, Waiting the summons to the last Tribune.

But 'mongst the hero-host that shrouded sleep 'Neath purple banner and engraven stone, Death hath not numbered one among his own More regal-souled than she for whom we weep.

Though a right Royal lineage she could claim, Proudly descendant from a Cambrian King; She was content to let her virtues bring Something more noble than a Royal name.

Her's was no sceptered life in queenly state: Yet queen she was, in all that makes a Queen; No deeds heroic marked her life serene: Yet heroine she in all that makes us great.

Through all the phases of a blameless life She lingered round the threshold of the poor: Where brighter scenes less noble minds allure, Her's was the joy to move 'midst martyr-strife.

To watch where hearts, by poverty o'ercome, Lay weak and wailing; and to point above, With words of hope, of comfort, and of love, Till brighter, happier, grew each cottage home.

And wine and oil fell plenteous from her hand, To cheer the wounded on life's weary way: While, for the human wrecks that round her lay, Her beacon-light beamed o'er the darkling strand.

Her's was a life of Love; then, of deep griefs, We'll rear a monument unto her name, More leal and lasting than the chiselled fame Of mighty monarchs or heroic chiefs.

And see! the virtues of the parent stem Break forth in blossom o'er the branching tree: Long may such fair, such bright fruition be, Of those bereaved their proudest diadem.

With sheltering arms--with hearts for ever green, By love united, may they still unite; So shall they gladden still the sainted sight Of one who is not, but who once has been.

(_a_) Mrs. Carne, relict of the late Rev. R. Nicholl Carne, of Dimlands Castle, and mother of R. C. N. Carne, Esq., Nash Manor, and of J. W. N. Carne, Esq., Dimlands and St. Donat's Castles, died November 28th, 1866, at Dimlands, in the 94th year of her age. Deceased could claim a Royal Welsh lineage, being the 34th in unbroken descent from Ynyr, King of Gwent and Dyfed. Her long life was distinguished by unostentatious acts of charity and good works.

ELEGIAC STANZAS

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. PASCOE ST. LEGER GRENFELL, MAESTEG HOUSE, SWANSEA. DIED JANUARY 8TH, 1868.

This world heroic souls can little spare That battle bravely with life's every ill: When days are dark that saintly smiles can wear, And all around with heavenly glory fill.

This world can little spare the Christian heart That holds with tearful faith the hand of God With never-yielding grasp; and takes full part In works divine on earth's degenerate sod.

This world can little spare the gentle voice That woos the sinful from the dreamy road Of human frailties, making hearts rejoice, Relieving souls of many a bitter load.

This world can little spare the bounteous hand That Plenty plants where Want oft grew before; Raising the latchet as with angel-wand, To cheer the darksome cottage of the poor.

Virtues like these the world can little spare That fleck life's road like snowdrops in the Spring, Making it beautiful; and, virtue rare! Silent and heedless of the bliss they bring.

But if the world should weep, how must they mourn For whom her goodness bloomed a thousand-fold More sweet in tender love? E'en as the dawn Crowns all it looks on with a fringe of gold.

So did affection gird in rosy might The home which by her presence was adorned, Where came an aching void: for lo! their light Was quencht by death and in the tomb in-urned.

Not quencht. Ah, no! For Heaven's eternal gates Flew open, and in robes which angels wear Her sainted spirit entered; and it waits For those that were beloved to join it there.

IN DREAMS.