More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.

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

His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.

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

That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.

I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel For words, like nature, half reveal And half conceal the soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain A use measured language lie's The sad mechanic exercise Like dull narcotic's, numbing pain In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er Like coarsest clothes against the cold But large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more.