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When each star beams full of love
Oft we see some child of wandering
Gaze one moment, as if pondering,
So, as ancient legends say,
" Dreams of heaven on the brow
All around in silent sadness,
Hark! that rapturous burst of madness Starting from each quivering chord
Of those hearts, that now have found
Years have rolled
way, Since that dread, that fateful day,
Anxious crowds, who seek some blessing, Some relief from sickening doom,
Onward with glad hearts are pressing,
Blazoned all with gems and gold :
11 The monks sat weeping around; the aged Robert consoled them by a narration of the austere life of the martyred prelate, in proof of it he thrust his hand under the garments, and showed the monk's habit and haircloth which he wore next to his skin. This was the one thing wanted to raise the enthusiasm of the bystanders to the highest pitch.
They burst into thanksgivings, which resounded through the choir, kissed the hands and feet of the corpse, and called him by the name of Saint Thomas,' by which, from that time forward, he was so long known to the European world.
STANLEY'S MEMORIALS OF CANTERBURY.
But woe for him who once decreed
Never dawned a brighter morrow
Till he bowed in shame and sorrow
Then, through many an after age,
O can we their weakness blame,
Who in true contrition bending
Who a thousand voices blending Breathed to heav'n some earnest prayer?
Rather mourn its splendour flown, 12 A King the shrine hath overthrown, Hath ta’en its glories for his own.
Yet mourn not, for that temple still
Hark! the white-robed band of singers Hymn a purer song of praise ;
While the summer fondly lingers,
And autumn's lovely blush is seen
12 Henry VIII.
There the hop its wild festoon
And a dark green arch hath builded, Where its golden flower is born;
There the hill-side bright is gilded With a waving sea of corn;
There the meadows lie below,
Through the evening calm and still,
Bearing many a joyous fragrance,
Ever in their wanton vagrance
While sweet nature, loveliest
SPENSER. FAERIE QUEEN.
Book I, C. 5, 8. 37-40.
HIPPOLYTUS a iolly huntsman was,
Who, all in rage, his seagod syre besought