The accidental discharge of a gun shortly after he came of age, and within a few weeks of his wedding day, has made the England of to-day the poorer by one of her most promising sons.  Infinite charity!  Infinite courage!  Infinite truth!  Infinite humility!  Who could do justice in prose to those rare and godlike qualities?  No:  miserable, weak, and ineffectual though my gift of poesy may be, yet I will not let those qualities pass away from the minds of all, save the few that knew him well, without following in the footsteps (though at an immeasurable distance) of the divine author of “Lycidas,” by endeavouring to render to his cherished memory “the meed of some melodious tear.”  For as time goes on, and the future unfolds to our view things we would have given worlds to have known long before, when the events that influenced our past actions and shaped our future destinies are seen through the dim vista of the shadowy, half-forgotten past, we must all learn the hard lesson which experience alone can teach, exclaiming with the “Preacher” the old, old words, “I returned, and saw under the sun that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.... but time and chance happeneth to them all”

     LINES IN MEMORY OF

     WILLIAM DILLWYN LLEWELYN.

     It may be chance,—­I hold it truth,—­
     That of the friends I loved on earth
     The ones who died in early youth
     Were those of best and truest worth.

     The swift, alas! the race must lose;
     The battle goes against the strong,—­
     God wills it ’Tis for us to choose,
     Whilst life is given, ’twixt right and wrong

     ’Tis not for us to count the cost
     Of losing those we most do love;
     He grudgeth not life’s battle lost
     Who wins a golden crown above.

     And oft beneath the shades of night,
     When tempests howl around these walls,
     A vision steals upon my sight,
     A footstep on the threshold falls.

     I see once more that graceful form,
     Once more that honest hand grasps mine. 
     Once more I hear above the storm
     The voice I know so well is thine.

     I see again an Eton boy,
     A gentle boy, divinely taught,
     And call to mind bow full of joy
     In friendly rivalry we sought

     The “playing-fields.”  Then, as I yield
     To fancy’s dreams, I see once more
     The hero of the cricket field,
     The oft-tried, trusty friend of yore.

     What tender yearnings, fond regret,
     These thoughts of early friendship bring! 
     None but the heartless can forget
     ’Mid summer days the friends of spring.

     Now thoughts of Oxford fill my mind: 
     My Eton friend is with me still,
     But changed—­from boy to man; yet kind
     And large of heart, and strong of will,

     And blythe and gay.  I recognise
     The athletic form, the comely face,
     The mild expression of the eyes,
     The high-bred courtesy and grace.