5 AUGUST 1865, Page 16

OXFORD TO WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE.

Os, noblest statesman thou, of all our time,

On to the tasks that lie before thee still, To guide, control, raise, purify the will Of toiling millions in their manhood's prime.

Thy flight soars high above our cloudy clime, Where dull tradition holds her wonted sway, And those who haunt the twilight hate the day, And love of truth is counted as a crime.

We miss thee now, but England owns her son, And knows the worth of that fire-tested gold ; Ours is the loss, but thou hest nobly won; Then on, be brave, the future's scroll unfold, And, as the months of ordered progress run, From out thy treasures bring forth new and old.

H.