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Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old
How widely its agencies vary
To save- to ruin
- to curse - to bless
As even its minted coins express,
Now stamped with the image of Good Queen Bess,
A Table of Errata.
Oh! would I were dead now,
Or up in my bed now,
To cover my head now
And have a good cry!
A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding,
The soul of music slumbers in the shell,
Till waked and kindled by the master's spell;
A thousand melodies unheard before!
Then, never less alone than when alone.*
* Numquam se minus otiosum esse, quam quum otiosus, nec minus solum, quam quum solus esset.
De Officiis, Lib. iii. cap. 1. CICERO.
Those that he loved so long and sees no more,
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear;
To a Tear.
That very law which moulds a tear
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
Tragedy of the Lac de Gaube.
But on and up, where Nature's heart
The Men of Old.
Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, Like instincts, unawares.
A man's best things are nearest him,
Lie close about his feet.
BRYAN W. PROCTOR.
The sea! the sea! the open sea!
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.
Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.
But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels.
Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose
And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change.
And topples round the dreary west
'Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all.
Fatima. St. 3.
O Love, O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul through
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.
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,
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;