on
the late Crawshay Bailey, Esq., for which a prize of 10 pounds was
given, and a bardic chair, value 5 pounds, by Mr. William Lewis.
There were twelve competitors, and each composition was confined to a
limit of 200 lines.

Sadly the sea, by Mynwy's rugged shore,
Moans for the dead in many a mournful strain.
A voice from hearts bereft cries "Come again;"
But wavelets whisper softly, "Never more!"

The restless winds take up the solemn cry,
As though--an age of sorrow in each breath--
The words, "O, come again," could call back Death
From the far-off, unseen Eternity.

"Our dwellings darkened when his life went out:
"We stand in cold eclipse, for gone the light
"Which made our cottage-homes so warm and bright;
"And shadows deepen o'er the world without.

"Come back--come back!" Upon the mournful wind
These words fall weirdly as they float along,
Melting the soul to tears: for lo! the song
Rises from hearts that seek but ne'er will find:

Save one more billow on the sea of graves;
One joyaunt voice the fewer in life's throng;
One hand the less to help the world along;
One Hero more 'mongst earth's departed Braves.

For who that in life's battle-field could fight
As he has fought, whose painless victories
Transcended war's heroic chivalries,
Could in his country's heart claim nobler height?

None may the niche of glory haplier grace,
None may the crown of greatness proudlier wear,
Than he upon whose tomb the silent tear
Falls slowly down from many a drooping face.

Faces whose hard and rugged outlines show
Life's daily struggle--O, how bravely fought!
Faces to which the only gladness brought
Came from the Friend who yonder lieth low.

Let us in mournful retrospect commune
O'er what that still cold heart and brain have won:
A hymn of life in lispings first begun,
Ending in harmony's most perfect tune.

As comes the sun from out the darkling-night,
And strikes, as did the patriarch of old,
Life's barren rocks, which flush with green and gold,
And pour out waters glad with living light,

So, crowned with blessings, in the far-off days,
Like Midas, Mynwy's monarch touched the earth,
Wrought golden plenty where once reigned a dearth,
And raised an empire he alone could raise.

No service his, of slavery, to bind
With tyrant fancy vassals to his will:
All hea