Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.

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

He that wrongs his friend, wrongs himself more.

Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

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 forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

A day may sink or save a realm.

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.