I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

Those who depend on the merits of their ancestors may be said to search in the roots of the tree for those fruits which the branches ought to produce.

I wind about, and in and out, - With here a blossom sailing, - And here and there a lusty trout, - And here and there a grayling.

That which we are, we are.

Mastering the lawless science of our law,- that codeless myriad of precedent, that wilderness of single instances.

Shall love be blamed for want of faith?