wel. He did a good deal of journalistic work and
entered the Baptist ministry in 1853. After holding various charges in
South Wales, he died Jan., 1873. His fame rests almost entirely on
lyric, "The Pauper's Grave," which is one of the most popular in the
language.

The Pauper's Grave.

Lo! a grassy mound, where lowers
Branching wide a sombre yew,
Rises as to catch the showers,
Jewelled showers, of heaven-sent dew.
Many a one with foot unheeding,
Tramples down its verdure brave,
Hurrying onward, careless treading,--
It is but a pauper's grave.

Workhouse hirelings from the Union
Bore him to his last, lone bed,
"Dust to dust," that sad communion
Woke no grief, no tear was shed.
Worn by woes and life's denials,
Only rest he now would crave:
Quiet haven from all trials
To the pauper is his grave.

E'en the rough-hewn stone is broken,
Where some rude, untutored hand
Carved two letters, as a token
Of their boyhood's scattered band,
And when bright Palm Sunday neareth,
When the dead remembrance crave,
Friend nor brother garland beareth
For the pauper's squalid grave.

Not for him the Muse which weepeth,
Carved in marble rich and rare;
Even now time's ploughshare creepeth
Through the grass which groweth there.
O'er the place where he is sleeping
Soon will roll oblivion's wave:
Still God's angel will be keeping
Ward above the pauper's grave.

TREBOR MAI.

Robert Williams was born May 25, 1830, and followed his father's trade as
a tailor. He published two small volumes in his lifetime, "Fy Noswyl" in
1861, and "Y Geninen" in 1869. The contents of these with large
additions were published after his death--which took place August 5,
1877--under the title of "Gwaith Barddonol Trebor Mai" (Isaac Ffoulkes,
Liverpool, 1883).

The Shepherd's Love.

Adown Llewelyn's Cairn there creep
Cloud shadows in the failing light,
From far off dingles flock the sheep
To seek their shelter for the night.
My dog about me as of yore
Plays seek and fetch as we go home;
But, Ellen, why dost thou no more
To meet me in the gloaming come?

The heart I gave thee free from thorn
Why seek to wound with coldness, sweet?
If lasts thine anger and thy scorn
Death's coming I will gladly greet.
Yet if to lose thee be my fate
My life I cannot all regret,
To see thy face doth compensate
Though weary storms await me yet.

Across thy memo