O fire once he drew

tae long kiss my whole soul through As sunlight drinketh dew.

Fatima. Stanza 3.

Yst wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;

morrow 'll be the happiest time of all the glad New Year:

Or the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merri

est day;

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be The May Queen.

Queen o' the May.

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 ashbuds in the front of March.
The Gardener's Daughter.
Ulysses.

I am a part of all that I have met.1

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.

Locksley Hall.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;

Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

Ibid.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,

Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his

horse.

Ibid.

1 Compare Byron, Childe Harold, Canto iii. St. 72. Page 474.

That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.1

Ibid.

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Hon

our feels.

Ibid.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.

Ibid.

Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing pur

pose 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.

Ibid.

Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change.

Ibid.

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

Chaucer, Troilus and Creseide, Book iii. Line 1625.

In omni adversitate fortunæ, infelicissimum genus est infortunii Boethius, De Consol. Phil., Lib. ii.

fuisse felicem.

I waited for the train at Coventry;

1 hung with grooms and porters on the bridge,

To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped
The city's ancient legend into this.

We are ancients of the earth,

And in the morning of the times.

Godiva.

The Day-Dream. L'Envoi.

As she fled fast through sun and shade,
The happy winds upon her played,
Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere.

But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

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,
And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair.
The Princess. Prologue.

A rosebud set with little wilful thorns,
And sweet as English air could make her, she.
Jewels five-words-long,

That on the stretched forefinger of all Time
Sparkle for ever.

Ibid.

Ibid ii.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Ibid. 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,
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.

Unto dying eyes

The Princess. iv.

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.
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.

Let knowledge grow from more to more.

Ibid.

vii.

Ibid.

In Memoriam. Prologue. Line 25.

1

I held it truth, with him who sings 1
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.

1 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.

Ibid. i.

Longfellow, The Ladder of St. Augustine.

Never morning wore

To evening, but some heart did break.

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

And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land.1

I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing.

In Memoriam. vi.

The shadow cloaked from head to foot, Who keeps the keys of all the creeds.

And Thought leaped out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.

"T is better to have loved and lost,

Ibid.

Hold thou the good: define it well:

For fear divine Philosophy

Should push beyond her mark, and be Procuress to the Lords of Hell.

Ibid. lii.

O yet we trust that somehow good

Will be the final goal of ill.

Ibid. liii.

1 Compare Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act v. Sc. 1. Page 119.