Robert Owen was born near Barmouth March 30th, 1858.  The son of a farmer, he was fortunate in attracting the attention of a French gentleman who had taken up his residence in the village and who taught him French, German and Italian.  He qualified as a teacher, but the seeds of consumption shewed themselves early, and he sailed, in 1879, for Australia, only to die near Harrow, Victoria, Oct. 23, 1885.  His works have never yet been published—­if, indeed, he wrote much.  The Llenor, No. 5 (January 1896), has an interesting article on him.

De Profundis.

Strait, strait and narrow is the vale! 
   Behind me riseth to the skies
What I have been:  in front, but dim,
   What I shall be all shrouded lies,
All shrouded by the curtain dark
   Of mists which from the river rise. 
Above, the clouds hide from mine eyes
   The hosts of heaven.

Strait, strait and barren is the vale! 
   For here no tender primrose blows,
Nor daisy with its simple charm,
   Nor from the yews which round me close
Comes song of thrush—­but dismal shriek
   Of deathbird, scattering as it goes
The stillness deep—­and pales my cheek
   With awe unspeakable.

Strait, strait and lonely is the vale! 
   Only from far falls on my ear
The murmur of the world I loved,
   But death’s dark torrent roareth near. 
Now ’neath my feet the path I tread
   Crumbling gives way, and filled with dread
Into the waves below I hear
   The fragments falling.

Strait, strait and hopeless is the vale! 
   Nor can I evermore regain
The days of happiness and health
   Which once I knew, days free from pain,
Nor move a foot from where I stand,
   And backward eyes of longing strain
A moment—­ere I leave the land
   And brave those waters.

Yet strait tho’ be the vale and dim,
   And though the skies are dark and drear,
And though the mountains everywhere
   Rise steep and rugged round me here
To bar me out from life! there lives
   One Star which shineth bright and clear
From out the sky and comfort gives
   To soothe my sadness.

A Prayer.

O my God, my Friend, my Father,
Thou who knowest all the secrets
Of man’s heart and all his failings—­
O forgive me for forgetting
All thy loving care towards me,
Evil child and disobedient,
And for setting up an idol
All of earth within thy temple. 
And receive from hands unworthy
As a sacrifice accepted
On Thine altar, Lord a bruised
Contrite heart that ever suffers
Daily pangs of disappointment
Even than death itself more bitter. 
Take the one love of a lifetime,
All the hopeless love and passion
Dedicated to another
Who with me Thy place had taken,
As if they to Thee were rendered. 
Count it, Father, as sufficient
Chastening, that I must abandon
All my hopes my love of winning,
All I have of kin and country,
All the comforts health bestoweth,
And across the sea go seeking
All alone a grave ’mid strangers. 
O, my God—­for I have suffered,
Grant at last Thy peace, Thy blessing.