There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods.

The Dew Of Compassion Is A Tear.

He Had Kept The Whiteness Of His Soul, And Thus Men O'er Him Wept.

Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

Perhaps The Early Grave Which Men Weep Over May Be Meant To Save.

I Was Accused Of Every Monstrous Vice By Public Rumour And Private Rancour; My Name, Which Had Been A Knightly Or Noble One, Was Tainted. I Felt That, If What Was Whispered, And Muttered, And Murmured, Was True, I Was Unfit For England; If False, England Was Unfit For Me.