POETRY.
TO THE AUTHOR OF FESTUS."
POET, who in your snowy years, Waitest the end of thought and tears, With stately calm, superb content, By crocus-purple banks of Trent.
Long since we watched the autumn beam Redden the hill of Byron's dream— The windy woods at Newstead shake Their fading leaves on Byron's lake.
Your star blazed like a meteor then, Your name lived on the lips of men, They felt the problems of their pain Barn in the splendour of your strain. Betimes drew on your waning hour, And dawn of new melodious power ; More golden craft, a defter skill, A note more limpid, worked their will.
The tones were lowered, the lights were dimmed,. Fate, sin, heaven, hell, urbanely hymned, 'Neath smoother art's ornater sway The world forgot your stormy lay.
Rest, Minstrel, in your patience strong, Time's just revenge will save your song; You will not hear—you may not know— But hearts shall quicken—eyes shall glow,
As souls fresh, free, alert, at length, For faith, fire, valour, wisdom, strength, For hope, light, exaltation, pine— And find them in your " mighty line."
JOSEPH TRUMAN.-
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