January 3rd.

WINGS have we, and as far as we can go

We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, supports that mood,

Which with the lofty sanctifies the low:

Dreams, books, are each a world: and books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good,
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

THE poet's pen is the true divining-rod,
Which trembles towards the inner founts of feeling;
Bringing to light and use, else hid from all,
The many sweet clear sources which we have
Of good and beauty in our own deep bosom.

January 4th.

I HAVE my share of common sense,
But no imagination;

I never made the least pretence
To shine in conversation;

I dare not stray in any way

An inch beyond my tether,

And when I've nothing else to do,
I talk about the weather.

I DARE not bid Time speed his pace:
I dare not bid him linger:
Fate lifts the scale, and holds my life
Poised on her even finger.

January 5th.

TENDER-HEARTED, stroke a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains;
Grasp it like a man of mettle,

And it soft as silk remains.

COME not, when I am dead,

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,

To trample round my fallen head,

And vex th' unhappy dust thou would'st not save,
Then let the wind sweep and the plover cry,

But thou go by.

Wordsworth.

Philip James Bailey,

II. S. Leigh.

Palgrave.

Aaron Hill.

Tennyson.

January 4th.

January 5th,

January 7th.

WHEN and where shall I earliest meet her?
What are the words she first will say?

By what name shall I learn to greet her?
I know not now, but will know some day.

A FACE with gladness overspread,
Sweet looks by human kindness bred,
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
With no restraint, but such as spring
From quick and eager visitants
Of thoughts.

January 7th.

HE either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,

That dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.

THE dawn upon her sweet young face,
The dewy spring-light in her eyes,
And round about her form of grace
The airs of Paradise.

January 8th.

NOBLE names, if nobly borne,
Live within a nation's heart.

*

*

*

*

Yet remember! 'tis a crown

That can hardly be thine own,

Till thou win it by some deed
That with glory fresh shall feed
Their renown!

Trefoil.

Wordsworth,

Marquis of Montrose.

Gerald Massey.

Marquis of Lorne.

I MUST think

That all the sweetness of his goodly face
Is copied from his soul.

Jean Ingelow.

B

January 9th.

OH! talk not to me of a name great in story,
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

FROM the sad hours of life

We sometimes do short hours, aye-minutes strike,
Keen, blissful, bright, never to be forgotten,
Which, through the dreary gloom of Time o'erpast,
Shine like fair sunny spots on a wild coast.

January 10th.

OH! would some power the giftie gi' us,

To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
And foolish notion.

NOBLE he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene.
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace,
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face.

January 11th.

FOR me the soft descent of chesnut flowers,
The cushat's cry for me.

The lovely laughter of the wind-swayed wheat,
The easy slope of yonder pastoral hill;
The sedgy brook whereby the red kine meet,
And wade and drink their fill.

A TREASURE may be ours,

Only we know it not, or know, perchance,
Unconscious of its worth!

Byron.

Joanna Baillie.

Robert Burns,

Crabbe.

Jean Ingelow.

Mrs. Hemans.