at the swallow
Which over the dingle is flying at will;
And hark to the song of the thrush in the hollow,
And cuckoo's clear cry on the side of the hill.
On high in the heavens the glad lark is trilling
The song which he lays at the footstool of morn;
My heart with strange gladness his music is thrilling,
As down from the sky by the breezes 'tis borne.

Arise, my beloved! the lambs are all springing
In frolic enjoyment the meadows among;
The stream through the valley its glad song is singing,
And the young day laughs lightly its waters along.
A robe of bright azure the clear sky is wearing
And bathed are the mountains in myriads of rays,
The woodland its harp for the noon is preparing
And hark, from its strings bursts a torrent of praise.

O rouse thee, my darling! Come, let us be going,
So soft is the breeze and so fragrant the air,
New health and new strength through our veins will be flowing,
And sorrow will vanish and sadness and care!
O banish the charms with which sloth would ensnare us,
Far purer the joy in the sunshine that lurks,
All nature her pinions is spreading to bear us,
And show us her Maker, revealed in His works.

ROBERT OWEN.

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