...these walls, at my approach, A Daughter's welcome gave me ; and I loved her As my own child. O Sir ! the good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket. Many a Passenger Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks, When she upheld the cool refreshment...

..."the good die first," but others too may God distinguish in his mercy by removing suddenly, while " they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust, Burn to the socket °." It is not for man, however, to indulge in such contemplations. Let it be granted that Raphael,...

...door but she who dwelt within A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her As my own child. Oh, Sir ! the good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket. Many a Passenger Hath bless'd poor Margaret for her gentle looks, When she upheld the cool refreshment...

...hope and promise — they did not stay long enough for disappointment and degradation and decay — " The good die first ; " And they whose hearts are dry as summer duet, " Burn to the socket." So says a great living poet ; and however ungenH 2 richly hung with underwood,...

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...helm, he need be under no apprehension. ORIGINAL POETRY. THOUGHTS ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. Ah ! sir, the good die first. And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket! WORDSWORTH* THERE came no vision girt with glorious pomp ; No seraph stood reveal'd ; nor heavenly...

...with electric wires! How goothly sings tho Swan of Avon! sweetest when the dirge is sympathetic — " The good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer' dust Burn to the socket." There is a disease known to our insular catalogue of maladies called a " galloping consumption." Being...

...of her lonely hut, The hut itself abandoned to decay, And she forgotten in the quiet grave ! O sir! the good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, Burn to the socket. To her hut no one came But he was welcome ; no one went away But that it seemed she loved him.— 3...

...dear heart, the same self-sacrificing heart, warming, like a fire, all around it. Affliction has temA ripe heart! now I know what Wordsworth meant, when...first. And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, Bum to the socket! The town clock is striking midnight. The cold of the night-wind is door and window-crevice...

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