I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.

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.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.

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