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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.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere.
From

yon

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,

'T is 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 i. Sc. 2. Beneath the rule of 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 viïi. 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.

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