"Yes, do."
And Montagu, in his pleasant musical voice, read me, with much feeling, these lines, written in Eric's boyish hand, and signed with his name.
ALONE, YET NOT ALONE.
Alone, alone! ah, weary soul,
In all the world alone I stand,
With none to wed their hearts to mine,
Or link in mine a loving hand.
Ah! I tell me not that I have those
Who owe the ties of blood and name,
Or pitying friends who love me well,
And dear returns of friendship claim.
I have, I have! but none can heal,
And none shall see my inward woe,
And the deep thoughts within me veiled
No other heart but mine shall know.
And yet amid my sins and shames
The shield of God is o'er me thrown
And, 'neath its awful shade I feel
Alone,--yet, ah, not all alone!
Not all alone! and though my life
Be dragged along the stained earth,
O God! I feel thee near me still,
And thank thee for my birth!
E.W.
Montagu gave me the paper, and I cherish it as my dearest memorial of my erring but noble schoolboy friend.
Knowing how strong an interest Mr. Rose always took in Eric, I gave him a copy of these verses when last I visited him at his pleasant vicarage of Seaford, to which he was presented a year or two ago by Dr. Rowlands, now Bishop of Roslyn, who has also appointed him examining chaplain. I sat and watched Mr. Rose while he read them. A mournful interest was depicted on his face, his hand trembled a little, and I fancied that he bent his grey hair over the paper to hide a tear. We always knew at school that Eric was one of his greatest favorites, as indeed he and Vernon were with all of us; and when the unhappy boy had run away without even having the opportunity for bidding any one farewell, Mr. Rose displayed such real grief, that for weeks he was like a man who went mourning for a son. After those summer holidays, when we returned to school, Montagu and Wildney brought back with them the intelligence of Eric's return to Fairholm, and of his death. The news plunged many of us in sorrow, and when, on the first Sunday in chapel, Mr. Rose alluded to this sad tale, there were few dry eyes among those who listened to him. I shall never forget that Sunday afternoon. A deep hush brooded over us, and before the sermon was over, many a face was hidden to conceal the emotion which could not be suppressed.
"I speak," said Mr. Rose, "to a congregation of mourners, for one who but a few weeks back was sitting among you as one of yourselves. But, for myself, I do not mourn over his death. Many a time have I mourned for him in past days, when I marked how widely he went astray,--but I do not mourn now; for after his fiery trials he died penitent and happy, and at last his sorrows are over for ever, and the dreams of ambition have vanished, and the fires of passion have been quenched, and for all eternity the young soul is in the presence of its God. Let none of you think that his life has been wasted. Possibly, had it pleased heaven to spare him, he might have found great works to do among his fellow-men, and he would have done them as few else could. But do not let us fancy that our work must cease of necessity with our lives. Not so; far rather must we believe that it will continue for ever; seeing that we are all partakers of God's unspeakable blessing, the common mystery of immortality. Perhaps it may be the glorious destiny of very many here to recognise that truth, more fully when we meet and converse with our dear departed brother in a holier and happier world."
I have preserved some faint echo of the words he used, but I can give no conception of the dignity and earnestness of his manner, or the intense pathos of his tones.
The scene passed before me again as I looked at him, while he lingered over Eric's verses, and seemed lost in a reverie of thought.
At last he looked up and sighed. "Poor Eric!--But no, I will not call him poor; after all he is happier now than we. You loved him well," he continued; "why do you not try and preserve some records of his life?"