  | FIRST LINES. | AUTHOR. | PAGE. | | He that cannot see well | Bacon | 54 | | Stone walls do not a prison make | Lovelace | 55 | | When the heart is right | Berkeley | 87 | | It must be so—Plato, thou reasonest well | Addison | 92 | | England, with all thy faults, I love thee still | Cowper | 154 | | Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast | Cowper | 158 | | Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us | Burns | 170 | | Life! we've been long together | Mrs. Barbauld | 178 | | Rough wind, that moanest loud | Shelley | 218 | | There is a book, who runs may read | Keble | 233 | | There is no great and no small | Emerson | 245 | | Wellington, Thy great work is but begun | Rossetti | 293 | | Sacrifice and self-devotion | Lord Houghton | 320 | | Flower in the crannied wall | Tennyson | 366 | | It fortifies my soul to know | Clough | 369 | | And yet, dear heart! remembering thee | Whittier | 372 | | There is no land like England | Tennyson | 377 | | The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above | Clough | 382 | | Be of good cheer then, my dear Crito | Socrates | 388 | | What know we greater than the soul | Tennyson | 407 | | That is best blood that hath most iron in't | Lowell | 411 | | Such kings of shreds have woo'd and won her | Aldrich | 419 |
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