He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent

its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

Locksley Hall.

This is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering

happier things.

Ibid.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.

Ibid.

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a

daughter's heart.

Ibid.

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that

Honour feels.

Ibid.

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.

Ibid.

I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my

dusky race.

Ibid.

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

Ibid.

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing

grooves of change.

Ibid.

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.

'T is better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all.

Ibid. xxvii.

O Love, O fire ! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul through
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. Fatima. St. 3.

Jewels five words long, 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.

Ibid. Canto iy.

Sweet is every sound,
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.

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.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

’T is only noble to be good.* Kind hearts are more than coronets,

And simple faith than Norman blood.

Ibid.

For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Recollections of the Arabian Nights.

HENRY TAYLOR.

THE world knows nothing of its greatest men.

Philip Van Artevelde. Part i. Act i. Sc. 5. He that lacks time to mourn lacks time to mend. Eternity mourns that.

Ibid. Act i. 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.

Ibid.

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. Part i. Act i. Sc. 7.

0

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

WE

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

breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most

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

Festus.

THOMAS K. HERVEY. 1804-1859.

THE

'HE tomb of him who would have made
The world too glad and free.

The Devil's Progress. He stood beside a cottage lone,

And listened to a lute,
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.

Ibid.

HER suffering ended with the day, ,

Yet lived she at its close,
And breathed the long, long night away,

In statue-like repose !

A Death-Bed.

But when the sun, in all his state,

Illumed the eastern skies,
She passed through Glory's morning gate,

And walked in Paradise.

Ibid.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

To him who in the love of Nature holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.

Thanatopsis.

Y