By playful smiles, (alas! too oft A sad heart’s sunshine) by a soft And gentle nature, and a free, Yet modest hand of charity, Through life was Owen Lloyd endeared To old and young; and how revered Had been that pious spirit, a tide Of humble mourners testified, When, after pains dispensed to prove The measure of God’s chastening love, Here, brought from far, his corse found rest,— Fulfilment of his own request;— Urged less for this yew’s shade, though he Planted with such fond hope the tree, Less for the love of stream and rock, Dear as they were, than that his Flock, When they no more their Pastor’s voice Could hear to guide them in their choice Through good and evil, help might have, Admonished, from his silent grave, Of righteousness, of sins forgiven, For peace on earth and bliss in Heaven. [Sidenote: ELEGIAC STANZAS.] If _post mortem_ poetical panegyric be a proof of the affection with which the subject has been regarded through life, (and why should it not?) Owen Lloyd must have enjoyed no ordinary share of the love and esteem of his neighbours and friends, for his early death is the subject, in addition to Mr Wordsworth’s epitaph, of three other sets of elegiac verses, viz., by Mr Hartley Coleridge, Mr Ball, of Glen Rotha, and Mr —— Lloyd, his surviving brother. Mr Hartley Coleridge’s verses are scarcely worthy of his name, though they certainly contain some striking stanzas, as this,—referring to his school days:— “Fine wit he had, and knew not it was wit, And native thoughts before he dreamed of thinking, Odd sayings, too, for each occasion fit, To oldest sights the newest fancies linking.” And these,—to a later period of life, when the gloom that darkened his latter days was appearing:— “I traced with him the narrow winding path Which he pursued when upland was his way, And then I wondered what stern hand of wrath Had smitten him that wont to be so gay. “Then would he tell me of a woeful weight— A weight laid on him by a bishop’s hand, That late and early, early still and late, He could not bear, and yet could not withstand.” These must serve as a specimen of Hartley Coleridge's dozen stanzas. Mr Ball’s are remarkable only as containing the following tolerable Irishism:— “The rock that meets the current’s way May _stillest_ rills _arrest_.” [Sidenote: BETTY YEWDALE.]