Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train,

To traverse climes beyond the western main;

Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,

And Niagara stuns with thundering sound.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): The Traveller. Line 409.

A royal train, believe me.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VIII. Act iv. Sc. 1.

I waited for the train at Coventry;

I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge,

To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped

The city's ancient legend into this.

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): Godiva.

When his veering gait

And every motion of his starry train

Seem governed by a strain

Of music, audible to him alone.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): The Triad.

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain

And Fear and Bloodshed,—miserable train!—

Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Character of the Happy Warrior.

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,

If better thou belong not to the dawn.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book v. Line 166.

Sabrina fair,

Listen where thou art sitting

Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,

In twisted braids of lilies knitting

The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair.

John Milton (1608-1674): Comus. Line 859.

With thee conversing I forget all time,

All seasons, and their change,—all please alike.

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,

With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun

When first on this delightful land he spreads

His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,

Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth

After soft showers; and sweet the coming on

Of grateful ev'ning mild; then silent night

With this her solemn bird and this fair moon,

And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:

But neither breath of morn when she ascends

With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun

On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,

Glist'ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,

Nor grateful ev'ning mild, nor silent night

With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon

Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book iv. Line 639.

When I am dead, no pageant train

Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,

Nor worthless pomp of homage vain

Stain it with hypocritic tear.

Edward Everett (1794-1865): Alaric the Visigoth.

Woes cluster. Rare are solitary woes;

They love a train, they tread each other's heel.

Edward Young (1684-1765): Night Thoughts. Night iii. Line 63.