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Patrick! cried Richard, 'why keep'st thou six legs here standing idle? Is thy master's business nothing to thee? Eccles looked up at him. He was coming to his senses. 'Thou rides in strange graith on my lord's business, he said, as he put the key in the lock. 'What is that to thee? Open the gate. And make haste.
Yes, you were born to die; Then shall I grudging sigh Because to you are sooner given The crown, the palm, the angel joy of heaven? Rather, O Lord, bestow On me the grace to bow, Childlike, to Thee, and since above Thou keep'st my treasures, there to keep my love. It is scarcely necessary to say that one of the friends to whom Mr. Hope- Scott sent these verses on his family losses of 1858 was Dr.
O, rest thee here, my gondolier, Rest, rest, while up I go, To climb yon light balcony's height While thou keep'st watch below. Ah! if high Heaven had tongues as well As starry eyes to see O, think what tales 'twould hate to tell Of wandering youths like me.
I wont to do this neighbourly loike, and let them think thee's gotten awa' o' theeself, but if he cooms oot o' thot parlour awhiles theer't clearing off, he mun' have mercy on his oun boans, for I wean't. If he foinds it oot, soon efther, I'll put 'un on a wrong scent, I warrant 'ee. But if thee keep'st a good hart, thee'lt be at whoam afore they know thee'st gotten off. Coom!
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe; Thou foundst me poor at first, and keep'st me so. My limb has been so well to-day, that I have gone up and down stairs often without my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once again on my own legs to dinner. It is only next street. Adieu. Sylvander. Tuesday Evening, Jan. 15.
Patrick! cried Richard, 'why keep'st thou six legs here standing idle? Is thy master's business nothing to thee? Eccles looked up at him. He was coming to his senses. 'Thou rides in strange graith on my lord's business, he said, as he put the key in the lock. 'What is that to thee? Open the gate. And make haste.
"Lieti fiori e felici." O joyous, blossoming, ever-blessed flowers! 'Mid which my queen her gracious footstep sets; O plain, that keep'st her words for amulets And hold'st her memory in thy leafy bowers! O trees, with earliest green of spring-time hours, And spring-time's pale and tender violets! O grove, so dark the proud sun only lets His blithe rays gild the outskirts of your towers!
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