Life's Progress.

Each year, and day, and moment, as it goes,
Doth add its record to the list of those

Which went before, to tell of progress new,
Some battle won, in science or in art,
Some new invention may have been a part
Of clearer vision in a wiser few.

The work of every man is to provide
A wave of pleasure in the rushing tide

Of life. In hardest toil may come this thought, That some will realise a great delight

By following their own duty's call aright

To gain possession of the work he wrought.

Man works with man, how sweet the concord proves, If one with heart and soul the other loves.

Each one, with purpose fixed and standard high, Will surely lengthen progress' pathway, tho' The stores of fruitful wealth he may not know In the small star he chanced to descry. May not a few men's lives thereby be blest? Where influence of good works takes its rest We know not, or if ever such a thing Could come to pass, for naught is lost to sight. If ne'er so small the deed, the motive's right

'Twill counted be in our world's reckoning. As light from heavenly bodies on their way Take time, and reach us at some distant day, So wisdom from its high remotest source Cast faintest glimmers through long ages past, Then each ray gathers more, till at the last A cloud of light descends the downward course. Yet it is upward that the progress moves As each discovered wonder clearly proves That to a height beyond all ken of man Progression aims, not with a sudden blow, But wheel in wheel, revolving in a slow Rotation. This the universal plan. As now we see how far advanced we are From what we were, so may be change as far Between the present and a future time. The high estate to which the progress leads We call perfection. But that blest state needs A Power beyond, which is o'er all sublime.

SAMUEL

DRAKE ROBERTS.

BY CHAS. F. FORSHAW, LL.D.

MR. ROBERTS, who for many years past has resided at Tenlands,' Gomersal, was born at Bradford on the 26th of January, 1832. He is the author of "Stansfield: A Tragedy," pp. 80, published at Heckmondwike in 1864. In addition to having been the creator of this volume, which we have recently had the pleasure of perusing, and which is prolific with powerful passages, Mr. Roberts has made many pleasing contributions to local periodicals. We quote one on the death of the Rev. R. F. Taylor, M.A., who for fifty years was vicar of the Old White Chapel, Cleckheaton. We also cull an extract from "Stansfield."

66

"Stansfield."

A TRAGEDY.

ACT IV. SCENE II. P. 67.

ARTHUR (after sighing deeply)—All, all is hollow: everything a farce

From first to last. Fame, riches, rank and honour-
Ay, all distinctions that the world can offer-

Light as the frothy crests of ocean-waves!

Poor, paltry bubbles on a phantom sea,

Though springs which partly urged me on to deeds
For which the final sentence is to be
Damnation-utter and unmitigated:

That's it-the finishing-up-stroke, crowning all
And then-no pause, no rest, no hope, no end;
But dull old Time will idly wander on—
On through the measureless ages, till engulfed
In the wide jaws o' the desert of eternity!
But can a passing moment's brief duration
Fix deeds which merit such a deathless death?
Away-away the thought! I'll not believe it!
It is a lie a gross and palpable lie,
Forged by a cunning priesthood to enslave
The asses of mankind. Let me look round
And mark the aspect of this mundane sphere,
With twice ten thousand thousand forms of life,
All bound together by unerring laws

Which never miss their object. Can it be
That He-the Founder of this planet's structure,
The great originating one (whose power
Sent forth the high irrevocable mandate
That perfect order and celestial beauty

Should spring from lifeless elements, and it was so);
He but an uncontrollable Despot whose dire cruelty
No tongue could shadow forth? Away such nonsense!
It is an insult to the living God

Who in His wisdom made us what we are!

No, no! let reason be my guiding star,

And whisper that, however black the deed,

What's done in Time, in Time receives its meed.
Scene closes.

In Memoriam.

THE REV. R. F. TAYLOR, WHITE CHAPEL, CLECKHEATON.

A GOOD man hath departed
From earth and earthly things;

And heavenward hath started
To meet the King of Kings.

A blameless life is ended,
A life of hope and trust,
Of love and duty blended-
Alas! to end in dust!

The chapel bell is tolling;

A sorrowing throng is seen;
The mourning cars are rolling
Towards the solemn scene.
And many an eye is bleared and dim,
And many a cheek is wet,
And many a prayer ascends for him
Whose earthly sun hath set.

For recollection moulds him-
Yea, moulds him as before;
And memory yet beholds him,
Beholds him as of yore.
Beholds the pale, angelic face—
Beholds the upward look-
Beholds him as he spake of grace,
The Message and the Book.

There was a daily beauty
That sanctified his life;
And fifty years of duty

To mend a world of strife;
To preach forgiveness to the weak;
To beckon goodness on;

To humble pride the Tempter seek
And bid him to be gone!

All hushed are the voices

Within that ancient fane;

Save one that should rejoice us,

For we die to rise again :

The emblems of mortality

Are in this house of prayer—

The coffin crowned with wreaths we see ;
The honoured dust is there.

Near that eastern window standing
Is our Saviour, Light and Word:
And near, with mien commanding,
Stands the Prophet of the Lord.
One softly speaks of heavenly love
One thunders out the law;
One gently leads his flock above;
The other strikes with awe.

And

prayer and benediction

In that reverend pile are heard,

Speaking comfort to affliction,

Which may pine with hope deferred. Listen to the organ pealing!

Listen as the voices rise! Till the harmony is stealing

Through the building to the skies.

Then the good man's dust is taken
To the consecrated earth;

And many hearts are shaken

That such piety and worth
Will not again be seen of men ;
For he, whom we deplore,
Has vanished from our mortal ken,
And vanished evermore.

THE following verses originally appeared in the Cleckheaton Guardian in June, 1880, above the initials "M.A.S." I am unable to give any particulars of the authoress, beyond that for some time she was engaged as a teacher at some school in Wyke.

Attachment to the English Church.

My Mother Church! It may not be,
But I must ever cling to thee
With feelings of a trusting child
To parent ever fond and mild.
While men, misguided, start away,
And proudly spurn thy gentle sway,
More simply to thy fold I'd turn,
More humbly from thy lips I'd learn.
They say that on thy brow appears
The wrinkle of declining years;
That weary is thy honour'd head,
And all thy pristine vigour fled.
But no! The youthful eagle's flight
Is glorious in the noontide light;
Yet rolling years behind her soar,
With eye undazzled as before.

The mocking laugh some love to raise,
To point the finger of dispraise,
From blemishes to tear the veil,
And joyful tell the well-conn'd tale;
But will they dare to lift a hand
Against the glory of our land—

Our Church, whose noble army stood

And sealed them witness with their blood?