Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn

The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled; And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!

One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.

That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.

The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.