And even the stranger, though he saw not these, Saw what would not be willingly passed by. In his deportment, even when cold and shy, 20 Was seen a clear collectedness and ease, A simple grace and gentle dignity, That failed not at the first accost to please; And as reserve relented by degrees, So winning was his aspect and address, 25 His smile so rich in sad felicities, Accordant to a voice which charmed no less, That who but saw him once remembered long, And some in whom such images are strong Have hoarded the impression in their heart, 30 Fancy’s fond dreams and memory’s joys among, Like some loved relic of romantic song, Or cherished masterpiece of ancient art. His life was private; safely led, aloof From the loud world,--which yet he understood 35 Largely and wisely, as no worldling could. For he by privilege of his nature proof Against false glitter, from beneath the roof Of privacy, as from a cave, surveyed With stedfast eye its flickering light and shade, 40 And gently judged for evil and for good. But whilst he mixed not for his own behoof In public strife, his spirit glowed with zeal, Not shorn of action, for the public weal,-- For truth and justice as its warp and woof, 45 For freedom as its signature and seal. His life thus sacred from the world, discharged From vain ambition and inordinate care, In virtue exercised, by reverence rare Lifted, and by humility enlarged, 50 Became a temple and a place of prayer. In latter years he walked not singly there; For one was with him ready at all hours His griefs, his joys, his inmost thoughts to share, Who buoyantly his burdens helped to bear, 55 And decked his altars daily with fresh flowers. But further may we pass not; for the ground Is holier than the Muse herself may tread; Nor would I it should echo to a sound Less solemn than the service for the dead. 60 Mine is inferior matter,--my own loss,-- The loss of dear delights for ever fled, Of reason’s converse by affection fed, Of wisdom, counsel, solace, that across Life’s dreariest tracts a tender radiance shed. 65 Friend of my youth! though younger, yet my guide, How much by thy unerring insight clear I shaped my way of life for many a year! What thoughtful friendship on thy deathbed died! Friend of my youth! whilst thou wast by my side 70 Autumnal days still breathed a vernal breath; How like a charm thy life to me supplied All waste and injury of time and tide, How like a disenchantment was thy death! _Henry Taylor._ CCXCIII _FOR CHARLIE’S SAKE._