_Laodamia._

=Sound.=

'T is not enough no harshness gives offence,--
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
1775
POPE: _E. on Criticism,_ Pt. ii., Line 162.

=Spain.=

Fair land! of chivalry the old domain,
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain!
1776
MRS. HEMANS: _Abencerrage,_ Canto ii., Line 1.

=Spear.=

His spear, to equal which the tallest pine
Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast
Of some great ammiral were but a wand.
1777
MILTON: _Par. Lost,_ Bk. i., Line 292.

=Speech.=

Rude am I in my speech
And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace.
1778
SHAKS.: _Othello,_ Act i., Sc. 3.

Speech is but broken light upon the depth
Of the unspoken; even your loved words
Float in the larger meaning of your voice
As something dimmer.
1779
GEORGE ELIOT: _Spanish Gypsy,_ Bk. 1.

=Spenser.=

Nor shall my verse that elder bard forget,
The gentle Spenser, fancy's pleasing son;
Who, like a copious river, poured his song
O'er all the mazes of enchanted ground.
1780
THOMSON: _Seasons, Summer,_ Line 1574.

=Spires.=

Ye swelling hills and spacious plains!
Besprent from shore to shore with steeple towers,
And spires whose "silent finger points to heaven."
1781
WORDSWORTH: _Excursion,_ Bk. vi., Line 17.

=Spirits.=

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
Why, so can I; or so can any man:
But will they come, when you do call for them?
1782
SHAKS.: _1 Henry IV.,_ Act iii., Sc. 1.

Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.
1783
MILTON: _Par. Lost,_ Bk. iv., Line 677.

=Splendor.=

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower.
1784
WORDSWORTH: _Intimations of Immortality,_ St. 10.

=Sport.=

Thick around
Thunders the sport of those, who with the gun
And dog, impatient bounding at the shot,
Worse than the season desolate the fields.
1785
THOMSON: _Seasons, Winter,_ Line 788.

=Spring.=

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove;
In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
1786
TENNYSON: _Locksley Hall,_ Line 19.

Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come;
And from the bosom of your dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veiled in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
1787
THOMSON: _Seasons, Spring,_ Line 1.

"Come, gentle Spring! ethereal mildness, come!"--
Oh!