1890 A GEBAT SOEEOW 179 



were elements of mitigation ; but here absolutely none. 

 Oh, it is bitter, bitter ; so much of life's happiness 

 emptied out and Edith, our own Edith, no longer 

 here ! 



In memory of this friend Mr. Romanes wrote a 

 little poem called ' To a Bust,' and from this a few 

 lines are given. 



There is one point to which the writer of this 

 memoir would like to call attention. 



Mr. Romanes was incapable of exaggeration, of 

 writing for effect, of insincerity. What he wrote he 

 felt, and his very simplicity and sweetness of character, 

 his childlike trust in the sympathy of others, made 

 him unreserved to his friends, to those whom he 

 loved. 



' Upon that Christmas Eve 

 We saw thee pass away, 



We heard the music of thy parting breath ; 



We saw a hght of angels in thy face — 

 A beauty so ineffable, that Death 



Was changed into a minister of Grace : 



The mountains in their autumn hues, 

 Of mountain reds and mountain blues. 

 With heather and with highland bells. 

 Await thy step on hills and fells ; 

 The spongy peat and dewy moss 

 Kemember where we used to cross — ■ 

 Bemember how they loved thy tread. 

 Make for thy steps their softest bed : 

 The murmuring streams are calling thee. 

 The woodlands sigh in every tree ; 

 Yet when I walk upon the shore, 

 The waves are whispering — nevermore ! 



Moumftdly, mournfully whispering, they. 

 Whispering, whispering every day. 

 Thy soul in their waters, thy breath in their spray, 

 Thy spirit still speaking in all that they say. 



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