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.

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

Richelieu. Act ii. Sc. 2.

Beneath the rule of men entirely great

The pen is mightier than the sword.

Line 5.

That large utterance of the early gods.

Sonnet to Haydon.

Hear ye not the hum

Of mighty workings.

Sonnet xi.

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific-and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

CHARLES WOLFE.

1791-1823.

The Burial of Sir John Moore.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note.

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory!

ROBERT POLLOK.

1798-1827.

The Course of Time.

Book iv. Line 689.

He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's mane
And played familiar with his hoary locks.

Book viii. Line 616.

He was a man

Who stole the livery of the court of Heaven

To serve the Devil in.

Book viii. Line 632.

With one hand he put

A penny in the urn of poverty,

And with the other took a shilling out.

THOMAS HOOD.

1798-1845.

The Death-Bed.

We watched her breathing through the night,

Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied;

We thought her dying when she slept,

And sleeping when she died.

The Bridge of Sighs.
One more Unfortunate
Weary of breath
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death.

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,

Young, and so fair!

Alas! for the rarity

Of Christian charity

Under the sun.

Even God's providence

Seeming estranged.

The Seasons.

Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,
And the book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.

Song of the Shirt.

It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives.

My tears must stop, for every drop, Hinders needle and thread.

Ode to Melancholy.

And there is ev'n a happiness

That makes the heart afraid.

There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in Melancholy.

Ballad.

When he is forsaken,

Withered and shaken,

What can an old man do but die?

I remember, I remember.

I remember, I remember

The fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,

But now 't is little joy

To know I'm further off from heaven

Than when I was a boy.

Miss Kilmansegg.

Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap In imperceptible water.

Her Moral.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold !

Bright and yellow, hard and cold.