France had shown a light to all men, preached a Gospel, all men's good; Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.

And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.

He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.

Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.

A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.