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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,
And now of a Bloody Mary.
A Table of Errata.
The soul of music slumbers in the shell,
Till waked and kindled by the master's spell;
And feeling hearts — touch them but rightly — pour
A thousand melodies unheard before!
Then, never less alone than when alone.'
* Numquam se minus otiosum esse, quam quum otiosus, nee minus solum, quam quum solus esset.
De Officiis, Lib. iii. cap. 1. Cicero.
Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves, — not dead, but gone before, He gathers round him.
A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear;
With many a fall, shall linger near.
To a Tear.
The good are better made by ill,
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
The Men of Old.
A man's best things are nearest him,
BRYAN W. PROCTOR
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its
novel force, 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
runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process
of the suns.
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.
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.
'T is better to have loved and lost,
Fatima. St. 3.
ima ve, o fire^'once he drew li one long Ass my whole soul through IVty lips, as siyilight drinketh dew.
The Princess. Canto iv. 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;