I hold it true, whatever befall;

I feel it when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

SONG FROM MAUD.

Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown;

Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,