That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.

The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man, And the man said, "Am I your debtor?" And the Lord--"Not yet: but make it as clean as you can, And then I will let you a better.

Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.

Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

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.

The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.