It glimmered brightly through the trees,
And shot a parting ray;
First to the valleys bid good-bye,

Then smiled upon the moorlands high,-
And then it passed away.

Its disc has disappeared from view
And night has cast its pall;

The dappled clouds retain their light,-
Divinely beautiful the sight,-

And peace reigns over all.

A December Rose.

On a solitary rose being found blooming in December on a little girl's grave.

WHEN Winter's hand lay icy cold
Upon the woodlands and the hills,
And in his grasp the streams were locked,
And mute were little wayside rills.
The old graveyard was lone and drear,
Upon that dark December day;

The Frost King touched the withered leaves,
And glittered on the tombstones grey.

I wandered in, I know not why,

In listless mood I love to tread
And meditate, where silence guards
The cheerless precincts of the dead.
I came upon a little grave,

Wherein there lay a sleeping child;
I stood entranced, for there, behold
A lovely rose upon me smiled.
A beauteous red December rose,
Whose perfume filled the frosty air;
It bloomed alone, amidst decay,

For all around was bleak and bare.
It blushed that I had found it dared
In winter time itself reveal;
And through those petals sweet, I felt
The child's own soul to mine appeal.

It bravely bore the biting frost,
And seemed to me a sacred thing;
To show that from the deepest gloom
Of death and winter, life can spring!
An emblem of the child's pure soul,

And of its love, and faith, and trust;
The flower it loved in life must needs
Grow there, above its mortal dust.
'Twas life in death, and seemed to be
All that a little child would crave,
Whose life was brief, whose death was sweet,
As that loved flower upon its grave.
A symbol of immortal life—

The hope that puts to flight all fears;
The crystal drops stood on that rose;
If angels weep, those were their tears.
That precious flower a sign may be,
Which they have sent to us in love,
To tell us that her spirit now

Lives fair as it, with them above.

Or is it that the winter rose

From Paradise was dropt below,

From off her crown, to let us know

That they have decked that darling's brow?

To the Sea.

THUNDER, thunder, mighty sea,
In thy great sovereignty;
Speaking as thy billows roll,
Appealing only to the soul.
Always moving, always will,
Restless ocean, never still;
Commanding with imperious voice,
With an awful deafening noise ;
Calling in the solemn gloom,
Hapless victims to their doom.

Soul of fierce despotic power,
Friend and foe in one brief hour!
Man to thee must ever bow;
Many, many moods hast thou ;
Beautiful, and weird, and wild-
One day tranquil, calm, and mild,
Shining like a mirror bright,
Rippling in the fair sunlight;
Then as angry thou wilt be,
O thou changing, surging sea!
With thy mighty waves advancing,
And the seething white spray dancing,
In their madden'd fury waking,
Rolling, roaring, bounding, breaking!
With thy broad'ning billows sweeping
Stately forward, booming, leaping;
With thy tossing foam-wreaths dashing,
And thy green-grey colours flashing.
Arch dissembler, too, art thou-
Who would think to see thee now,
Laughing with defiant pride,
That those smiling waters hide
Smould'ring passions laid at rest,
Underneath thy placid breast?
Thou, that only yesterday,
Summoned human lives away:
Many a fond heart was bereft
When thy heaving billows cleft,
Taking at one mighty sweep,
To thy yawning caverns deep,
Those who dared to cope with thee,
O thou grasping, hungry sea!
Challenging, with threat'ning roar,
All who cross from shore to shore.
With thine own mysterious light,
Beautiful thou art to-night;

All is thine that thou canst claim,
And looking on thee we exclaim-
"What wonders in thy waters lurk!
Thou art God's greatest, noblest work."

JOHN ODDY, V.S.

BY THE REV. BENJAMIN MAYOU, M.A.

LATE VICAR OF BADDESLEY-ENSOR.

HAVING been called upon to occasionally take services at the Old White Chapel, Cleckheaton, I happened to become somewhat intimately acquainted with Mr. John Oddy, the subject of the present brief memoir. He was born at Tong, near Leeds, on October 4th, 1829. He was brought up with his father and grandfather, and attended the village school until eleven years of age, when he was taught by Mr. William Crowther, of Bramley, for three years. His father and grandfather had all their lives followed the occupation of smiths and farriers, and John decided to adopt that business as a livelihood. With his relatives he remained until twenty-four years of age. In February, 1854, he commenced the practise of Veterinary Surgeon at Cleckheaton, a profession he still follows. He has been on the list of qualified Veterinary Surgeons since the passing of the Act of Parliament about a dozen years ago. He was married to Miss Butler, of Cleckheaton on September 16th, 1857. Ever since he migrated from Tong to Cleckheaton, Mr. Oddy has taken an active interest in Mutual Improvement and other Societies, holding various offices. During a long and eventful life he has also evinced a deep interest in things musical, and played the violoncello at Tong Church; in fact he was choirmaster there for ten years. Mr. Oddy is a life member of the Yorkshire Association of Change Ringers, the Cleckheaton Philharmonic Society, and several other institutions.

The writer has frequently held long conversations with him on medical and other subjects; and always found him well up to date in general knowledge-and many a pleasant chat has he had with him whilst on the way to church-for Mr. Oddy is an ardent Conservative and a true Churchman.

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As regards his powers of versification, much might be said; that he is a versatile writer, I think all will admit. His poetry though never reaching a lofty standard, is not by far so servile as much that has been handed down to posterity in volume form. The pieces I have selected viz :- My Old Anvil Block," Music,' "The Last Hawthorn in Whitcliffe Lane," "Lines on Love,' " and "Cleckheaton Town Hall Clock and Chimes," will give an accurate déscription of his style, and will not, I think, be unwelcome to the readers of this volume. Many of Mr. Oddy's poems have been printed in the local papers, others have been issued in slip form for presentation purposes. Mr. Oddy is a prophet not without honour even in his own country. In