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For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year's nest!1
It is not always May.

Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet!

O thou child of many prayers!

Maidenhood.

Life hath quicksands, — life hath snares!

Ibid.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,

Let me review the scene,

And summon from the shadowy Past
The forms that once have been.

A Gleam of Sunshine.

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

The Day is Done.

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Ibid.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Ibid.

1 Pues ya en los nidos de antaño, no hay pajaros

ogano. Cervantes, Don Quijote, ii. 74.

This is the forest primeval. Evangeline. Part 1.

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

Ibid. Part 1, i.

Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots

of the angels.

Ibid. Part I, iii.

And, as she looked around, she saw how Death,

the consoler,

Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed

it for ever.

Into a world unknown,

nation ! 1

Ibid. Part II, V.

the corner-stone of a

The Courtship of Miles Standish.

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,

That of our vices we can frame

A ladder, if we will but tread

Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

The Ladder of St. Augustine.

Sail on, O Ship of State!

Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!

Humanity with all its fears,

With all the hopes of future years,

Is hanging breathless on thy fate!

The Building of the Ship.

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee, - are all with thee!

The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.

Ibid.

The Fire of Drift-wood.

1 Plymouth Rock.

There is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair.

Resignation.

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead.

Ibid.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

In the elder days of Art,

Ibid.

Builders wrought with greatest care

Each minute and unseen part;

For the gods see everywhere.

The Builders.

Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate,
Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours.
Weeping upon his bed has sate,

He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers. From Goethe's Wilhelm Meister. Motto, Hyperion. Book i.

Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love, and joy, and sorrow learn ; Something with passion clasp or perish, And in itself to ashes burn.

Motto, Hyperion. Book ii.

1 Wer nie sein Brod mit Thränen ass,

Wer nicht die kummervollen Nächte

Auf seinem Bette weinend sass,

Der kennt euch nicht, ihr himmlischen Mächte.

Wilhelm Meister, Book ii. Ch. 13.

Alas! it is not till time, with reckless hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of Human Life, to light the fires of passion with, from day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number.

Hyperion. Book iv. Ch. viii.

"Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.”1

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Are there not, dear Michal,

Two points in the adventure of the diver,
One — when, a beggar, he prepares to plunge?
One — when, a prince, he rises with his pearl?
Festus, I plunge.

Paracelsus ii.

Measure your mind's height by the shade it

casts!

Ibid. iii.

Other heights in other lives, God willing.

One Word More.

1 From To Morrow, Nathaniel Cotton. Compare Genesis xxxiii.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

Broad based upon her people's will,
And compassed by the inviolate sea.
To the Queen.

For it was in the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Recollections of the Arabian Nights.

Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn.

Across the walnuts and the wine.

The Poet.

The Miller's Daughter.

O Love, O fire! once he drew

With one long kiss my whole soul through
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Fatima. St. 3.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

The Palace of Art.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife1 Smile at the claims of long descent.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere.

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. Ibid.

I This line stands in the edition of 1842 (Moxon, 2 vols.) The gardener Adam and his wife,

and has been restored by the author in his edition of

1873

2 Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus.

Juvenal, Sat. viii. Line 20.

To be noble, we 'll be good.

Winefreda.

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