"He does not love me for my birth Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. - Alfred Tennyson

"I myself beheld the King
Charge at the head of all his Table Round,
And all his legions crying Christ and him,
And break them; and I saw him, after, stand
High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume
Red as the rising sun with heathen blood,
And seeing me, with a great voice he cried,
"They are broken, they are broken!" for the King,
However mild he seems at home, nor cares
For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts — For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs
Saying, his knights are better men than he — Yet in this heathen war the fire of God
Fills him: I never saw his like: there lives
No greater leader."

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace! Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll.