* * * * *
_The Princess_. Canto iv.
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.
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.
Canto 7.
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.
* * * * *
_Lady Clara Vere de Vere_.
From yon blue heaven above us bent,
The grand old gardener and his wife
Smile at the claims of loner descent.
* * * * *
HENRY TAYLOR
_Philip Van Artevelde_.
Part i. Act i. Sc. 5.
The world knows nothing of its greatest men.
* * * * *
EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON.
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