e
pride of Roslyn had he lived. Poor, poor Eric!"

We talked long of our loved friend; his bright face, his winning words,
his merry smile, came back to us with the memory of his melancholy fate,
and a deep sadness fell over us.

"Poor boy, he is at peace now," said Montagu; and he told me once more
the sorrowful particulars of his death. "Shall I read you some verses,"
he asked, "which he must have composed, poor fellow, on board the
_Stormy Petrel_ though he probably wrote them at Fairholm afterwards?"

"Yes, do."

And Montagu, in his pleasant musical voice, read me, with much feeling,
these lines, written in Eric's boyish hand, and signed with his name--

Alone, Yet Not Alone.

Alone, alone! ah, weary soul,
In all the world alone I stand,
With none to wed their hearts to mine,
Or link in mine a loving hand.

Ah! tell me not that I have those
Who own the ties of blood and name;
Or pitying friends who love me well,
And dear returns of friendship claim.

I have, I have! but none can heal,
And none shall see my inward woe,
And the deep thoughts within me veiled
No other heart but mine shall know.

And yet amid my sins and shames
The shield of God is o'er me thrown
And 'neath its awful shade I feel
Alone,--yet, ah, not all alone!

Not all alone! and though my life
Be dragged along the stained earth,
O God! I feel thee near me still,
And thank thee for my birth!

EW.

Montagu gave me the paper, and I cherish it as my dearest memorial of my
erring but noble schoolboy friend.

Knowing how strong an interest Mr Rose always took in Eric, I gave him
a copy of these verses when last I visited him at his pleasant vicarage
of Seaford, to which he was presented a year or two ago by Dr Rowlands,
now Bishop of Roslyn, who has also appointed him examining chaplain. I
sat and watched Mr Rose while he read them. A mournful interest was
depicted on his face, his hand trembled a little, and I fancied that he
bent his grey hair over the paper to hide a tear. We always knew at
school that Eric was one of his greatest favourites, as indeed he and
Vernon were with all of us; and when the unhappy boy had run away
without even having the opportunity for bidding any one farewell, Mr
Rose displayed such real grief, that for weeks he was like a man who
went mourning for a son. After those summer holidays, when we returned
to school, Montagu and Wildney brought back with the