Riding at dawn, riding alone, Gillespie left the town behind; Before he turned by the Westward… A horseman crossed him, staggering… ‘The Devil’s abroad in false Vell…

In seventeen hundred and fifty-nin… When Hawke came swooping from the… The French King’s Admiral with t… Was sailing forth to sack us, out… The ports of France were crowded,…

The Squire sat propped in a pillo… His eyes were alive and clear of c… But well he knew that the hour was… To bid good-bye to his ancient hom… He looked on garden, wood, and hil…

With sanguine looks And rolling walk Among the rooks He loved to stalk, While on the land

Over the turret, shut in his iron-… Craven was conning his ship throug… Gun to gun he had battered the for… Now was the time for a charge to e… There lay the narrowing channel, s…

Praise thou with praise unending, The Master of the Wine; To all their portions sending Himself he mingled thine: The sea-born flush of morning,

(from the French of Wenceslas, Du… I cannot tell, of twain beneath th… Which one in grief the other goes… Narcissus, who to end the pain he… Died of the love that could not he…

‘Hark ye, hark to the winding horn… Sluggards, awake, and front the mo… Hark ye, hark to the winding horn; The sun’s on meadow and mill. Follow me, hearts that love the ch…

(After Martial) Bernard, if to you and me Fortune all at once should give Years to spend secure and free, With the choice of how to live,

His beauty bore no token, No sign our gladness shook; With tender strength unbroken The hand of Life he took: But the summer flowers were fallin…

This is the Chapel: here, my son, Your father thought the thoughts o… And heard the words that one by on… The touch of Life has turn’d to t… Here in a day that is not far,

After long labouring in the windy… On smooth and shining tides Swiftly the great ship glides, Her storms forgot, her weary watch… Northward she glides, and through…

Dear Earth, near Earth, the clay… The land we sowed, The hearth that glowed— O Mother, must we bid farewell to… Fast dawns the last dawn, and what…

(After Horace) Let others praise, as fancy wills, Berlin beneath her trees, Or Rome upon her seven hills, Or Venice by her seas;