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,
'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.

In Memoriam.

XV.

And topples round the dreary west
A looming bastion fringed with fire.

xxvii.

'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
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

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.

Canto 7.

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.

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.

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.