The world is a wheel, and it will all come round right.
Endymion. Chap. Izz.

"As for that," said Waldenshare, "sensible men are all of the same religion." "Pray, what is that?" inquired the Prince. "Sensible men never tell.” 1

Chap, Lazzi. The sweet simplicity of the three per cents.2 Chap, zevi,

ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 1807-1855.

And thou, vast ocean! on whose awful face
Time's iron feet can print no ruin-trace.

The Omnipresence of the Deity. Part i.

The soul aspiring pants its source to mount,
As streams meander level with their fount.*

The solitary monk who shook the world
From pagan slumber, when the gospel trump
Thunder'd its challenge from his dauntless lips
In peals of truth.

Ibid.

Luther. Man's Need and God's Supply.

And not from Nature up to Nature's God,5
But down from Nature's God look Nature through.
Ibid. A Landscape of Domestic Life.

1 See Johnson, page 370.

An anecdote is related of Sir Anthony Ashley Cooper (1621-1683), who, in speaking of religion, said, "People differ in their discourse and profession about these matters, but men of sense are really but of one religion." To the inquiry of" What religion?" the Earl said, "Men of sense never tell BURNET: History of my own Times, vol. i. p. 175, note (edition 1833). 2 See Stowell, page 437.

it."

3 See Byron, page 547.

4 We take this to be, on the whole, the worst similitude in the world In the first place, no stream meanders or can possibly meander level with the fount. In the next place, if streams did meander level with their founts, no two motions can be less like each other than that of meandering level and that of mounting upwards. — MACAULAY: Review of Montgomery's Poems (Eleventh Edition). Edinburgh Review, April, 1830.

These lines were omitted in the subsequent edition of the poem. 5 See Bolingbroke, page 304.

Come, wander with me, for the moonbeams are bright
On river and forest, o'er mountain and lea.

A word in season spoken
May calm the troubled breast.

The bud is on the bough again,

Come, wander with me.

A Word in Season.

The leaf is on the tree.

The Meeting of Spring and Summer.

I have heard the mavis singing
Its love-song to the morn;
I've seen the dew-drop clinging
To the rose just newly born.

We have lived and loved together

Mary of Argyle.

Through many changing years;
We have shared each other's gladness,
And wept each other's tears.

We have lived and loved together.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 1807-1882.

(From the edition of 1886.)

Look, then, into thine heart, and write !1

Voices of the Night. Prelude

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.2

Life is real! life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Art is long, and time is fleeting,3

A Psalm of Life.

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still like muffled drums are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.*

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.
Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate; 5
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

1 See Philip Sidney, page 34.

2 Things are not always what they seem. —

Fable 2.

8 See Chaucer, page 6.

Art is long, life is short.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Ibid.

PHEDRUS: Fables, book ir

- GOETHE: Wilhelm Meister, vii. 9.

Our lives are but our marches to the grave.-BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER"

The Humorous Lieutenant, act iii. sc. 5.

5 See Byron, page 553.

There is a reaper whose name is Death,1
And with his sickle keen
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

The Reaper and the Flowers.

The star of the unconquered will.

Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know erelong, -
Know how sublime a thing it is

To suffer and be strong.

The Light of Stars.

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

The hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain.

Ibid.

Flowers.

Midnight Mass.

No tears

Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

Sunrise on the Hills.

No one is so accursed by fate,

No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year's nest! 2

Endymion

It is not always May

Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

The Rainy Day.

1 There is a Reaper whose name is death. —ARNIM ANd Brentano: Erntelied. (From "Des Knaben Wunderhorn," ed. 1857, vol. i. p. 59.)

Never look for birds of this year in the nests of the last. - CERVANTES Don Quixote, part ii. chap. lxxiv.

The prayer of Ajax was for light.'

O suffering, sad humanity!
ye afflicted ones, who lie
Steeped to the lips in misery,
Longing, yet afraid to die,
Patient, though sorely tried!

The Goblet of Life

Ibid

Standing with reluctant feet
Where the brook and river meet,

Womanhood and childhood fleet!

O thou child of many prayers!

Life hath quicksands; life hath snares!
She floats upon the river of his thoughts.2

Maidenhood.

Ibid.

The Spanish Student. Act ii. Sc. 3.

A banner with the strange device.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,

Let me review the scene,

And summon from the shadowy past

The forms that once have been.

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Excelsior.

A Gleam of Sunshine.

The Day is done.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

1 The light of Heaven restore;
Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more.

Ibid.

Ibid.

POPE: The Iliad, book xvii. line 730

See Byron, page 553.