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He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent

its novel force,

Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his

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With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.


But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels.


Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing pur

pose runs,

And the thoughts of men are widened with the process

of the suns.


I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.


I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.


Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.


Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.


And topples round the dreary west
A looming bastion fringed with fire.

In Memoriam. xv.

'Tis better to have loved and lost,

Than never to have loved at all.

O Love, O fire! once he drew

With one long kiss my whole soul through

My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Jewels five words long,

Ibid. xxvii.

Fatima. St. 3.

That on the stretched forefinger of all time,

Sparkle for ever.

The Princess. Canto ii.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Ibid. Canto iv.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

Sweet is every sound,

Ibid. Canto iv.

Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;
Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawn,
The moan of doves in immemorial elms,

And murmuring of innumerable bees.

Ibid. Canto vii.

Happy he

With such a mother! faith in womankind

Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.

The Princess. Canto vii.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

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'HE world knows nothing of its greatest men.


Philip Van Artevelde. Parti. Acti. Sc. 5.

He that lacks time to mourn lacks time to mend. Eternity mourns that.

Ibid. Acti. Sc. 5.

We figure to ourselves

The thing we like, and then we build it up

As chance will have it, on the rock or sand:

For thought is tired of wandering o'er the world, And homebound fancy runs her bark ashore.

* Cf. Winefreda, page 240.


Such souls

Whose sudden visitations daze the world,

Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind
A voice that in the distance far away

Wakens the slumbering ages.

Philip Van Artevelde. Parti. Acti. Sc. 7.


E live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not



In feelings, not in figures on a dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs.


He most

Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.

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One Summer's eve, when the breeze was gone,
And the nightingale was mute!


Like ships, that sailed for sunny isles,

But never came to shore ! The Devil's Progress.

A Hebrew knelt, in the dying light,

His eye was dim and cold,

The hairs on his brow were silver-white,

And his blood was thin and old.


JAMES ALDRICH. 1810-1856.

HER suffering ended with the day,

Yet lived she at its close,

And breathed the long, long night away,

In statue-like repose!

But when the sun, in all his state,

Illumed the eastern skies,

A Death-Bed.

She passed through Glory's morning gate,

And walked in Paradise.



To him who in the love of Nature holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

A various language.



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