Besides, Rose Bradwardine, beautiful and amiable as we have described her, had not precisely the sort of beauty or merit which captivates a romantic imagination in early youth. She was too frank, too confiding, too kind; amiable qualities, undoubtedly, but destructive of the marvellous, with which a youth of imagination delights to dress the empress of his affections.

In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.

For Love will still be lord of all.

Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel.

come he slow or come he fast it is but death that comes at last

The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have know a better day.

Meat eaten without either mirth or music is ill of digestion.