But vaster. We are fools and slight,
We mock Thee when we do not fear
But help thy foolish ones to bear,
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

Forgive what seemed my sin in me;
What seemed my worth since I began;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to Thee.

Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in Thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.

Forgive these wild and wandering crics,
Confusions of a wasted youth;

Forgive them where they fail in truth,
And in thy wisdom make me wise.

THIS lady, whose fugitive poems gave hope to those acquainted with them, that they were prelusive of a more sustained melody, went early to join another band of harpers, leaving the promised strain unsung on earth. She was born at Long Sutton, in the county of Lincoln, Feb. 20th, 1831; the daughter of Henry Ewen, Esq., a medical practitioner of considerable local repute as a man of general cultivation, and of professional celebrity more than local. Her early training was careful and

successful-education in the best and strictest sense of its

etymology. All that she acquired she sealed with the graceful impress of her own individuality. Gifted with a singular linguistic facility, she became familiar with the best authors in most of the languages of modern Europe. Her heart and intellect were open to welcome and appropriate all noble and gentle influences; God, man, nature, art-these, and in this gradation, were the objects of a large and well-directed love.

In 1857 Miss Ewen was married to Dr. Fotherby, of Trinity Square, London, the editor of her "Poems" (1862), and writer of a touching preface, which shows him to have been a worthy and appreciative sharer in her poetical and religious aspirations.

66

Mrs. Fotherby died almost literally in song. The poems quoted are the last, with one exception, she lived to produce. Written in the near prospect of death, they are two out of a group of six of which her husbandeditor says: "Indeed they are a voice from the grave itself." In a note appended to The Time to Die," Dr. Fotherby remarks: "Her wish was granted. It was when the reaper's task was well-nigh done in the fields around, that the sickle was put in, and she was gathered into the garner. And a few hours afterwards, the lowering sky sighed forth in fitful gusts of wind and driving rain, the coming of the snow.'

Mrs. Fotherby died, after many months of resigned and tuneful martyrdom to weakness and decline, at her father's house at Long Sutton, August 15th, 1861.

THE TIME TO DIE.

It is the pleasant summer prime,
The green is on the tree;
Sweet are the blossoms of the lime,

All things seem glad and free.

Yet still I hear the solemn chime
Of a dark and awful sea;-
I would it were the autumn time
When the reaper comes for me.

There riseth to the soft blue sky,
Full many a joyous tune ;-
Ah, it would grieve my heart to die
In the merry month of June!

When sea waves sound the dreary knell,
And stormy currents flow;
When keener, wilder winds foretell
The coming of the snow:

Then waft to me the sweet farewell,

And lay me

66

straight and low;"

And softly toll the passing bell,

That all around may know;

And heavenward prayers may upward swell, Like incense from below,

By two worlds' love encircled well,

""Tis thus that I would go.

So, when "the swallow homeward flies,"
He'll come again in spring;
So, when the drooping flowret lies
A pale and faded thing,

Another season to your eyes
A brighter bloom will bring;
And I, a happy soul, shall rise
In the resurrection spring.

NIGHT AND MORNING.
Turn thy face unto the wall,
The weary day is done;
Be thy doings great or small,
Night draweth darkly on;
Thou no more hast part in all
The work beneath the sun-
Turn thy face unto the wall,
For day is done!

Fold thy hands to peaceful rest,
And happy dreams of home;
Lay them crosswise on thy breast,-
No more thy feet shall roam.
The shadows deepen in the west,
And night is come.

Weep not thou with sorrow bowed,
Low in the dust to lie;

The sun for aye behind the cloud
With gladness fills the sky;
E'en now he lifts his banner proud,
For morn is nigh!

THE END.

HARRILD, Printer, LONDON.

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