The jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels.

Tis a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendour falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the walls; 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fleet; She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings; In a moment we shall meet; She is singing in the meadow, And the rivulet at her feet Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings.

The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

Through the ages one increasing purpose runs.

Faith is believing what we cannot prove.

Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.

O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.