RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.

But on and up, where Nature's heart

Beats strong amid the hills.

Tragedy of the Lac de Gaube. St. 2.

Great thoughts, great feelings came to them, Like instincts, unawares. The Men of Old.

A man's best things are nearest him,

Lie close about his feet.

The beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

Ibid.

I wandered by the Brookside.

SAMUEL LOVER.

1797-1868.

Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye.

Rory O'More. For drames always go by conthraries, my dear.1

Ibid.

"Then here goes another," says he, “to make

sure,

For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory

O'More.

Sure the shovel and tongs

To each other belongs.

Ibid.

Widow Machree.

1 Ground not upon dreams, you know they are ever contrary. Middleton, The Family of Love, iv. 3.

Poe.- Willis.- Taylor.

567

1811-1849.

EDGAR A. POE.

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my

chamber door,

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

The Raven.

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!

Quoth the Raven: "Nevermore."

To the glory that was Greece

And the grandeur that was Rome.

Ibid.

To Helen.

NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.

1817-1867.

At present there is no distinction.among the

upper ten thousand of the city.1

Necessity for a Promenade Drive.

HENRY TAYLOR.

The world knows nothing of its greatest men. Philip Van Artevelde. Parti. Act. i. Sc. 5.

An unreflected light did never yet

Dazzle the vision feminine.

Ibid.

He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure
For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them.
Where sorrow's held intrusive and turned out,
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity.

1 See Note, ante, p. 549.

Ibid.

We figure to ourselves

The thing we like, and then we build it up
As chance will have it, on the rock or sand:
For thought is tired of wandering o'er the world,
And homebound Fancy runs her bark ashore.
Philip Van Artevelde. Parti. Acti. Sc. 5.
Such souls,

Whose sudden visitations daze the world,
Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind
A voice that in the distance far away

Wakens the slumbering ages.

Act i. Sc. 7.

CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH.

Thought is deeper than all speech;
Feeling deeper than all thought;

Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.

Stanzas.

SAMUEL F. SMITH.

My country, 't is of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,-

Of thee I sing:

Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims' pride,

From every mountain side

Let freedom ring.

National Hymn.

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;1

In feelings, not in figures on a dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most

lives

Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.

Festus.

Life 's but a means unto an end, that end, Beginning, mean, and end to all things - God.

Ibid.

Poets are all who love, who feel great truths, And tell them: and the truth of truths is love. Ibid.

LYDIA MARIA CHILD.

England may as well dam up the waters of the Nile with bulrushes as to fetter the step of Freedom, more proud and firm, in this youthful land, than where she treads the sequestered glens of Scotland, or couches herself among the magnificent mountains of Switzerland.

Supposititious Speech of James Otis. From The
Rebels, Ch. iv.

1 A life spent worthily should be measured by a nobler line, — by deeds, not years.

Sc. I.

Sheridan, Pizarro, Act iv.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

A sacred burden is this life ye bear,
Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly,
Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly.
Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin,
But onward, upward, till the goal ye win.

Lines addressed to the Young Gentlemen leaving the
Lenox Academy, Mass.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

The hope of all who suffer,
The dread of all who wrong.

The Mantle of St. John De Matha.

Making their lives a prayer.

On receiving a Basket of Sea Mosses.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Maud Muller.

Give lettered pomp to teeth of time,

So Bonny Doon but tarry;

Blot out the epic's stately rhyme,
But spare his Highland Mary.

Lines on Burnsa