“Yes,” said he, pausing, “very true”: with look Half-loving and half-pitying. “My friend, You now must creep no more; for all too long You have in country hamlets shady grown. For part of this our duty, ere we die, Is to be up and stirring; we must rise Or be for ever fallen: God will help. Else all that’s good and holy in the land, Beneath the blasting influence of the State Will wither and dry up and droop and die, As neath the upas-tree. We must be up, And moving, now, at once; and when our friend Shall have returned from ancient Sicily,” (He spake of one whom he had left behind Bound for the classic shores of Syracuse), “Tracts we must have, and, by what means we can, Launch them abroad, short Tracts; we must begin, And you, too, you must aid, and with your verse. Come, see what you have ready for our hand. The _Monthly_, as you know, _The British_ named, Is open for our letters, prose, and rhyme. But deeper the foundations must be laid In these our Tracts; subsidial aid we need, Full many: to get friends (if here and there One may be found, or two) to bring to aid Their pulpits, and proclaim there is a Church Planted by Christ’s own hand within our isle.―― And let us now to Worcester.” Then of one He spake, well-honoured for good service done Linking our Liturgies unto the past. “Hearty he is, and earnest; though not meet Throughout to understand and sympathise, Yet in his line will lend us his good aid, Though looking for external front, and powers, More than on principles which we are bent To scatter broad and deep. Let’s now to him.” And thus, full-sailed in academic garb, Through the Collegiate gates, archway, and porch We passed in conversation, bent to raise The Signal: ’twas the day of little things. That friend with whom I thus in council walked, Associate of my earlier years, long since Is in his peaceful grave; nor did he live To see our sorrows. There was that in him Wherein one might cast anchor. Often wont