Page:Records of Woman.pdf/105

Rh

There is but one place in the world. Thither where he lies buried! There, there is all that still remains of him, That single spot is the whole earth to me. 's Wallenstein.

Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert. Childe Harold.

went a warrior's funeral thro' the night, A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, Far down the waters. Heavily and dead, Under the moaning trees the horse-hoof's tread