Charles Kingsley-features which death had colonies, officers, and sailors, the bishop of rendered calm, grand, sublime. The con- his diocese, and the dean of his abbey: there stant struggle that in life seemed to allow no were the leading Nonconformists of the rest to his expression, the spirit, like a caged neighborhood, and his own devoted curates, lion, shaking the bars of his prison, the mind peers, and members of the House of Comstriving for utterance, the soul wearying for mons, authors and publishers; and outside loving response-all that was over. There the churchyard, the horses and the hounds remained only the satisfied expression of tri- and the huntsman in pink, for though as good umph and peace, as of a soldier who had a clergyman as any, Charles Kingsley had fought a good fight, and who, while sinking been a good sportsman, too, and bad taken into the stillness of the slumber of death, in his life many a fence as bravely as he took listens to the distant sounds of music and to the last fence of all, without fear or tremthe shouts of victory. One saw the ideal man, bling. All that he had loved, and all that had as nature had meant him to be, and one felt that loved him was there, and few eyes were dry there is no greater sculptor than death. As when he was laid in his own yellow gravelone looked on that marble statue, which only bed, the old trees which he had planted and some weeks ago had so warmly pressed one's cared for waving their branches to him for hand, his whole life flashed through one's the last time, and the grey sunny sky looking thoughts. One remembered the young curate down with calm pity on the deserted rectory, and the Saint's Tragedy; the chartist parson and on the short joys and the shorter sufferand Alton Locke; the happy poet and the ings of mortal men.-Preface to New Edition Sands of Dee; the brilliant novel-writer and of the Roman and the Teuton. Hypatia and Westward-Ho; the rector of

SONNETS. Eversley and his village sermons; the beloved professor at Cambridge, the busy canon at

O Nature! thou whom I have thought to love, Chester, the powerful preacher in Westmin

Seeing in thine the reflex of God's face, ster Abbey. One thought of him by the A loathed abstraction would usurp thy place, Berkshire chalk-streams and on the Devon- While Him they not dethrone, they but disprove. shire coast, watching the beauty and wisdom

Weird Nature ! can it be that joy is fled,

And bald unmeaning lurks beneath thy smile? of nature, reading her solemn lessons, chuck

That beauty haunts the dust but to beguile, ling, too, over her inimitable fun. One saw

And that with Order, Love and Hope are dead? him in town-alleys, preaching the Gospel of Pitiless force, all-moving, all unmoved, godliness and cleanliness," while smoking his

Dread mother of unfathered worlds, assuage

Thy wrath on us,-be this wild life reproved, pipe with soldiers and navvies. One heard

And trampled into nothing in thy rage! him in drawing-rooms, listened to with pa

Vain prayer, although the last of human kind, tient silence, till one of his vigorous or quaint Force is not wrath,--but only deaf and blind. speeches bounded forth, never to be forgotten. How children delighted in him! How young,

Dread force, in whom of old we love to see wild men believed in him, and obeyed him, A nursing mother, clothing with her life too! How women were captivated by his The seeds of Love divine, with what sore strife chivalry, older men by his genuine humility

We hold or yield our thoughts of Love and thee!

Thou art not “ calm," but restless as the ocean, and sympathy! All that was now passing

Filling with aimless toil the endless yearsaway-was gone. But as one looked on him

Stumbling on thought, and throwing off the spheres, for the last time on earth, one felt tlrat greater

Churning the Universe with mindless motion. than the curate, the poet, the professor, the

Dull fount of joy, unhallow'd source of tears,

Cold motor of our fervid faith and song, canon had been the man himself, with his

Dead, but engendering life, love, pangs, and fears, warm heart, his honest purposes, his trust in Thou crownedst thy wild work with foulest wrong his friends, his readiness to spend himself,

When first thou lightedst on a seeming goal,

And darkly blunder'd on man's suffering soul. his chivalry and humility, worthy of a better age. Of all this the world knew little ; yet few men excited wider and stronger sympa

APRIL: A SONNET. thies. Who can forget that funeral on the Snow on the ground, and blossoms on the trees ! 28th January, 1875, and the large, sad throng

A bitter wind sweeps madly 'cross the moor;

The children shiver at the cottage door, that gathered round his grave? There was And old men crouch beside the fire for ease.

Yet suill the happy lark disdains the breeze ; the representative of the Prince of Wales,

The buds swell out, the primrose makes a floor and close by the gypsies of the Eversley com- Of sylvan beauty, though the frost be hoar, mon, who used to call him their Patrico-rai,

And ships are battling with tempestuous seas.

'Tis April still, but April wrapt in cloud, -, their Priest-King. There was the old squire Month of sweet promise and of Nature's bliss,

When Earth leaps up at Heaven's reviving kiss, of his village, and the laborers, young and And flouts at Winter lingering in her shroud. old, to whom he had been a friend and a

Haste swiftly, Spring, to banish drear decay,

And welcome Summer with the smile of May, father. There were governors of distant



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