I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.

Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.

Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

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.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.

For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.