This was the noblest Roman of them all: 
    All the conspirators, save only he,
    Did that they did in envy of great Caesar;
    He only, in a general honest thought
    And common good to all, made one of them. 
    His life was gentle; and the elements
    So mix’d in him, that Nature might stand up,
    And say to all the world, “This was a man!”

SHAKESPEARE ("Julius Caesar").

 THE SKYLARK.

        Bird of the wilderness,
        Blithesome and cumberless,
    Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea! 
        Emblem of happiness,
        Blest is thy dwelling-place—­
    Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

        Wild is thy lay and loud,
        Far in the downy cloud,
    Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 
        Where, on thy dewy wing,
        Where art thou journeying? 
    Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

        O’er fell and fountain sheen,
        O’er moor and mountain green,
    O’er the red streamer that heralds the day,
        Over the cloudlet dim,
        Over the rainbow’s rim,
    Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

        Then, when the gloaming comes,
        Low in the heather blooms
    Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! 
    Emblem of happiness,
        Blest is thy dwelling-place—­
    Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

THOMAS HOGG.

 THE CHOIR INVISIBLE.

“The Choir Invisible” (by George Eliot, 1819-80) is a fitting exposition in poetry of this “Shakespeare of prose.”

O, may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
Of miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge men’s minds
To vaster issues. 
May I reach
That purest heaven,—­be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty,
Be the sweet presence of good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense! 
So shall I join the choir invisible,
Whose music is the gladness of the world.

GEORGE ELIOT.

 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.

“The World Is Too Much With Us,” by Wordsworth (1770-1850), is perhaps the greatest sonnet ever written.  It is true that “the eyes of the soul” are blinded by a surfeit of worldly “goods.”  “I went to the Lake
 District” (England), said John Burroughs, “to see what kind of a country could produce a Wordsworth.”  Of course he found simple houses, simple people, barren moors, heather-clad mountains, wild flowers, calm lakes, plain, rugged simplicity.