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Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawn,
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.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
Recollections of the Arabian Nights.
EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.
Sonnet to Haydon.
When a new planet swims into his ken;
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise —
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
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!
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
Her breathing soft and low,
Kept heaving to and fro.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;
And sleeping when she died.
The Bridge of Sighs.
Take her up tenderly,
Alas! for the rarity
Even God's providence
By the gusty thieves,
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.
There's not a string attuned to mirth,
I remember, I remember.
Miss Kilmansegg. Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap In imperceptible water.