a
freak in the history of literary reputations, and not primarily as the
writer of such words as these--

"A little touch of something like pride is seated in the true sense of
a man's own greatness, without which his humility and modesty would
be contemptible virtues."

"It is a vain and insipid thing to suffer without loving God or man.
Love is a transcendent excellence in every duty, and must of
necessity enter into the nature of every grace and virtue.
That which maketh the solid benefit of patience unknown, its taste so
bitter and comfortless to men, is its _death_ in the separation and
absence of its soul. We suffer but love not."

"All things do first receive that give:
Only 'tis God above
That from and in Himself doth live;
Whose all-sufficient love
Without original can flow,
And all the joys and glories show
Which mortal man can take delight to know.
He is the primitive, eternal Spring,
The endless Ocean of each glorious thing.
The soul a vessel is,
A spacious bosom, to contain
All the fair treasures of His bliss,
Which run like rivers from, into, the main,
And all it doth receive, return again."

"You never enjoy the world aright till the sea itself floweth in your
veins, till you are clothed with the heavens and crowned with the
stars."

[1] Early editions of Goldsmith's poem bore the title, _The Traveller; or,
A Prospect of Society_. Later editions dropped the sub-title.

APRIL.

"Thus, then, live I
Till 'mid all the gloom
By Heaven! the bold sun
Is with me in the room
Shining, shining!

"Then the clouds part,
Swallows soaring between;
The spring is alive
And the meadows are green!

"I jump up like mad,
Break the old pipe in twain,
And away to the meadows,
The meadows again!"

The poem of FitzGerald's from which these verses come was known,
I believe, to very few until Mr. E. V. Lucas exhumed it from _Half-hours
with the Worst Authors_, and reprinted it in that delightful little book
_The Open Road_. I have a notion that even FitzGerald's most learned
executor was but dimly aware of its existence. For my part, at this time
of the day, I prefer it to his Omar Khayyam--perversely, no doubt.
In the year 1885 or thereabouts Omar, known only to a few, was a wo