Line 194.
That gems the starry girdle of the year.
Line 263.
Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll
Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul!
Line 325.
O star-eyed Science! hast thou wandered there,
To waft us home the message of despair?
Line 377.
What though my winged hours of bliss have been,
Like angel-visits, few and far between.
O'Connor's Child.
Another's sword has laid him low,
Another's and another's;
And every hand that dealt the blow,
Ah me! it was a brother's!