Chapter 457

Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

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Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.

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_Lady Clara Vere de Vere_.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of loner descent.

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HENRY TAYLOR

_Philip Van Artevelde_.