Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it: He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.

Then never less alone than when alone.

Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.

That very law which moulds a tear And bids it trickle from its source,- That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course.

Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.

Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.

To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.