I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie; His daily teachers had been woods and rills, The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great, is passed away.
All men feel something of an honorable bigotry for the objects which have long continued to please them.
I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach Of ordinary men.
The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an Angel's wing.