anhood cannot show,
Than with true hand, brave heart, and sleepless mind,
To build up name and fortune 'midst their kind,
From grains and drops--as worlds and oceans grow.

So, in the rare meridian of his time,
In pride of conscious strength, he stood alone,
A king of kings upon his Iron Throne,
Wrought out from humble step to height sublime,

As shadows lengthen in the setting sun,
So spread the stature of his later life,
Which, like Colossus, o'er earth's busy strife,
Towered grandly till that life's last sand was run.

And so he passed away, as meteors die;
Leaving a trail of splendour here on earth
To mark the road he took in virtuous worth,
In sterling truth, and rare integrity.

These are the living landmarks he has left:
Bright jewels in his earthly sojourn set,
Whose brilliance seen, those looking ne'er forgot:
A glorious heritage for friends bereft.

Such gems as those who mourn may still adore,
Whose glistening rays men's footsteps lead aright
Through life's dark way, like glow-worms in the night,
Or angel-glintings from the eternal shore.

As round decaying flowers perfume clings
In silent tribute to the blossoms dead,
So memory, brooding o'er his spirit fled,
Nought but the sweetest recollection brings.

ELEGIES

NASH VAUGHAN EDWARDES VAUGHAN.

(OF RHEOLA.)

DIED SEPTEMBER 18TH, 1868. (_a_)

I.

Let bard on battle-field, in sounding verse,
Proclaim to distant time the warrior-deed
That makes a hero, whose triumphal hearse
Rolls graveward o'er a thousand hearts that bleed
In widowed agony. Let golden lyre
Of regal Court engaged in worldly strife
Clothe princely foibles with poetic fire,
And crown with fame a king's ignoble life.
Let chroniclers of Camp and Court proclaim
A Warrior's greatness, and a Monarch's fame.
Be mine with verse the tomb of one to grace
Whose nobler deeds deserve a nobler place.

II.

The lofty fane that cleaves the glowing sky,
And heavenward points with golden finger-tip--
Structure whence flows the sacred harmony
Of prayer and praise from Christian heart and lip:
The ranging corridors where--blest the task--
'Tis ours to soothe the fever and the pain
Of wounded natures, who, despairing, ask
For healing touch that makes them whole again.
These are the monuments that proudly stand
On corner stones--