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And statesmen at her council met
Who knew the seasons, when to take
Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet. To the Queen.
Broad based upon her people's will,
And compassed by the inviolate sea. Ibid.
For it was in the golden prime
KecollectiuHS of the Arabian Nights.
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn.
The Pott. Across the walnuts and the wine. The Miller's Daughter.
I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house.
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. The Palace of Art.
Her manners had not that repose
Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere. Stanza 5.
From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife J
Smile at the claims of long descent. Stanza 7.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me.
'T is only noble to be good.2
And simple faith than Norman blood. Ibid.
1 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, Satire viii. Line 20.
0 love, O fire! onee he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul through
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. Fatima. Stanza 3.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow 'll be the happiest time of all the glad New Year;
Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. The May Queen.
God gives us love. Something to love
He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve
Falls off, and love is left alone. To J. S.
More black than ashhuds in the front of March.
The Gardener's Daughter.
I am a part of all that I have met.1 Ulysses.
In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished
dove; In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to
thoughts of love. Loeksley Ball.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in musie out of sight. Ibid.
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent
its novel foree, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his
1 Compare Byron, Childt Harold, Canto iii. St. 72. Page 474.
Like a dog, he hunts in dreams. Lock.-leg Hall.
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter’s heart. laid.
This is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.1 Ibid.
But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels. Ibid.
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new. Ibid.
Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. Ibid.
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Ibid.
I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time. Ilrid. Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change. lbid.
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
I waited for the train at Coventry;
I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge,
V\» watoh the three tall spires: and there I shaped
the city's ancient legend into this. Godiva.
We are ancients of the earth,
And in the morning of the times.
The Day-Dream. L'Envoi.
As she fled fast through sun and shade,
Sir Lnuncelot and Queen Guinevere.
Break, break, break. But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me. Ibid.
With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans,
The Princess. Prologue.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
11 lid. iii. O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. Ibid.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
The Princess, iv. Unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square. Ibid.
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. Ibid.
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. vii.
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. Ibid.
Let knowledge grow from more to more.
In Mtmoriam. Prologue. Line 25.
I held it truth, with him who sings'
Of their dead selves to higher things. Ibid. i.
1 Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
Longfellow, The Ladder of St. Augustine.