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.

From

yon

Lady Clara Vere de Vere.

blue heaven above us bent,

The grand old gardener and his wife

Smile at the claims of long descent.

Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
'Tis only noble to be good.

Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.

Recollections of the Arabian Nights.

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

Beneath the rule of men entirely great

The pen is mightier than the sword.

HENRY TAYLOR.

Philip Van Artevelde.

Part i. Act i. Sc. 5.

The world knows nothing of its greatest men.

Act i. Sc. v.

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

Act i. Sc. v.

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.

Act i. Sc. 7.

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.

PHILLIP JAMES BAILEY.

Festus.

We 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.

THOMAS K. HERVEY.

The Devil's Progress.

The tomb of him who would have made

The world too glad and free.

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 !

JAMES ALDRICH.

A Death-Bed.

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,

She passed through Glory's morning gate,

And walked in Paradise.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Thanatopsis.

To him who in the love of Nature holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings.

Sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

March.

The stormy March has come at last,

With wind and clouds and changing skies;

I hear the rushing of the blast

That through the snowy valley flies.

Autumn Woods.

But 'neath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame.

Forest Hymn.

The groves were God's first temples.

The Death of the Flowers.

The melancholy days are come,
The saddest of the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods,
And meadows brown and sear.

The Battle-Field.

Truth crushed to earth shall rise again:
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

The Problem.

The hand that rounded Peter's dome,
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome.

He builded better than he knew.

Earth proudly wears the Parthenon
As the best gem upon her zone.

Hymn. At the completion of the Concord Monument.

Here once the embattled farmers stood,

And fired the shot heard round the world.