Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.

Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.

Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.

I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.