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INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES.
A CITY clerk, but gently born and bred, 152.
Ah God! the petty fools of rhyme, 232.
All along the valley, stream that flashest white,
And Willy, my eldest born, is gone, you say,
A plague upon the people fell, 232.
Are those the far-famed Victor Hours, 877.
A spirit haunts the year's last hours, 12.
A still small voice spake unto me, 30.
A storm was coming, but the winds were still, 373.
A thousand summers ere the time of Christ, 536.
BANNER of England, not for a season, O banner
Beat, little heart I give you this and this,' 807.
CARESS'D or chidden by the slender hand, 25.
Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn, 8.
Come not, when I am dead, 116.
'Courage!' he said, and pointed toward the
DAGONET, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood,
Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander?
Dead Princess, living Power, if that, which lived,
Dear Master in our classic town, 851.
Dear, near and true — no truer Time himself, 235.
Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters
Doubt no longer that the Highest is the wisest
Dust are our frames; and, gilded dust, our pride,
EH? good daäy! good daäy! thaw it bean't not
FAINT as a climate-changing bird that flies, 783.
Farewell, whose like on earth I shall not find,
Fifty times the rose has flower'd and faded, 782.
From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done, 410
GLORY of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song,
HAD the fierce ashes of some fiery peak, 853.
Here, by this brook, we parted; I to the East, 136.
He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, 25.
How long, O God, shall men be ridden dowl., 25.
O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well, 60.
Old Fitz, who from your suburb grange, 525.
O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake, 81.
Once in a golden hour, 230.
Once more the gate behind me falls, 86.
O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise to know, 562.
O purblind race of miserable men, 347.
thou so fair in summers gone, 563.
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep, 521.
O you that were eyes and light to the King till
PELLAM the King, who held and lost with Lot,
Pine, beech and plane, oak, walnut, apricot,
QUEEN GUINEVERE had fled the court, and sat,
RALPH would fight in Edith's sight, 866.
Revered, beloved-O you that hold, 1.
SEA-KINGS' daughter from over the sea, 218.
Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day, 161.
So saying, light-foot Iris pass'd away, 525.
So then our good Archbishop Theobald, 676.
Stand back, keep a clear lane! 566.
Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town, 108.
THAT is his portrait painted by himself, 876.
The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, 335.
The charge of the gallant three hundred, the
The form, the form alone is eloquent! 25.
The gleam of household sunshine ends, 867.
The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, 311.
The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a
The North wind fall'n in the new-starréd night,
The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 15.
These roses for my Lady Marian, 814.
The Son of him with whom we strove for power,
The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills
and the plains, 234.
The voice and the Peak, 234.
The winds, as at their hour of birth, 6.
The wind, that beats the mountain, blows, 61.
They rose to where their sovran eagle sails, 523.
They wrought a work which Time reveres, 875.
Thou who stealest fire, 11.
Thy dark eyes open'd not, 22.
Thy tuwhits are lull'd, I wot, 9.
Two children in two neighbour villages, 18.
ULYSSES, much-experienced man, 802.
VEX not thou the poet's mind, 14.
WAÄIT till our Sally cooms in, fur thou mun a'
'Wait a little,' you say, 'you are sure it'll all
Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast, 26.
We left behind the painted buoy, 114.
We move, the wheel must always move, 811.
What be those crown'd forms high over the sacred
What sight so lured him thro' the fields he knew,
What time the mighty moon was gathering light,
Wheer asta beän saw long and meä liggin' 'ere
When cats run home and light is come, 9.
Where is one that, born of woman, altogether can
While about the shore of Mona those Neronian
While man and woman still are incomplete, 8:2
Who would be, 19.
Why wail you, pretty plover? and what is it that
Will my tiny spark of being wholly vanish in
You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 63.
You make our faults too gross, and thence main-
You might have won the Poet's name, 120.
Young is the grief I entertain, 877.
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