Volume 99 — A LYRIC FOR LOWESTOFT.

Henry Irving, will the Master feel the fierce and bracing breeze, As you wander by the margin of the restless Eastern seas? Save the seagull slowly swirling none shall hear the tale of woe, Learn how dark the life that ended in the fatal "Kelpie's Flow." 'Mid the murmur of the ocean you will tell how Edgar felt When his Lucy broke her troth-plight, and he flung down Craigengelt, Fitting place for actor's study, all that long and lonely shore; Yonder point methinks as Wolf's Crag should be known for evermore. Henceforth will the place be haunted when the midnight hour draws nigh: Men shall see the Master standing stern against the stormy sky. Faint, impalpable as shadow from the cloudland, Lucy there Shall keep tryst; the moon's effulgence not more golden than her hair. And, in coming nights of Autumn, when the vast Lyceum rings With reverberating plaudits, and the town thy praises sings, Memories of the sands at Lowestoft shall be with you ere you sleep; In your ears once more shall echo diapason of the deep.