The arm we had raised to do for truth such wonders;
We feel it softly bearing on our side—
We feel it touch and thrill us through the body,—
And we are fools, and there’s the end of us.
P. J. Bailey (Festus).
It fell upon a merry May morn,
I’ the perfect prime of that sweet time
When daisies whiten, woodbines climb,—
The dear Babe Christabel was born.