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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.

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

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd 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.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.

Ibid.

Ibid.

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a

daughter's heart.

Ibid.

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

This is truth the poet sings,

That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering

happier things.1

Locksley Hall.

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.

Ibid.

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

Ibid.

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

1 Nessun maggior dolore

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice

Nella miseria.

Ibid.

Dante, Inferno, Canto v. St. 121.

For of fortunes sharpe adversite,

The worst kind of infortune is this,

A man that has been in prosperite,
And it remember, whan it passed is.

Chaucer, Troilus and Creseide, Book iii. Line 1625. In omni adversitate fortunæ, infelicissimum genus est infortunii fuisse felicem.- Boethius, De Consol. Phil., Lib. ii.

But O! for the touch of a vanish'd 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.

We are ancients of the earth,

And in the morning of the times.

Ibid.

The Day-Dream. L'Envoi. As she fled fast thro'' sun and shade, The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlets from the braid.

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. 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.

Ibid.

Jewels five-words long,

That on the stretched forefinger of all time

Sparkle forever.

Ibid. Canto ii.

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

Ibid. Canto 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. Canto iii.

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.

The Princess.

Unto dying eyes

Canto iv.

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square.

Ibid. Canto iv.

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. Canto iv.

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.

Ibid. Canto 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. Canto vii.

I held it truth, with him who sings 1
To one clear harp in divers tones,

1 Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame

That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.

In Memoriam. i.

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.

Ibid. vi.

Ibid. xv.

Ibid. xviii.

Ibid. xxi.

The shadow cloak'd from head to foot, Who keeps the keys of all the creeds.

Ibid. xxiii.

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

'T is better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all.

Ibid. xxiii.

Ibid. xxvii.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer.

Ibid. xxxii.

Whose faith has centre everywhere,

Nor cares to fix itself to form.

Ibid. xxxiii.

A ladder, if we will but tread

Beneath our feet each deed of shame.

Longfellow, The Ladder of St. Augustine. 1 Compare Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act v. Sc. 1.

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