Walks o’er the dew of yond high eastern hill”;
and then with them both we may pass down the slope to the sea-shore where we clasp hands with Laureate Tennyson and, as we listen to the break, break, break upon the sands, say in our hearts with him,
“And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.”
With Milton we may plunge to the lowest depths and rise to the greatest heights, and stand with him at last in a Paradise regained. With Dryden we may shout from the golden-tipped top of the mount of lyric song to the battling brave below,
“If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh think it worth enjoying”;
and hear the reverberant echoes along the channeled valleys of the soul of Gray,
“The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”
With Whittier, longing to do and doing the greatest good of which we are capable, we may often question,