The tendency of all eight-accent lines being to break up into halves of four accents, the distinction between four-stress and eight-stress verse may be at times only a question of printing. Thus, Thackeray's _Sorrows of Werther_ might be regarded as eight-stress trochaic, though commonly printed in short lines: "Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter. Would you know how first he saw her? She was cutting bread and butter." _Eight-stress anapestic._ Ere frost-flower and snow-blossom faded and fell, and the splendor of winter had passed out of sight, The ways of the woodlands were fairer and stranger than dreams that fulfil us in sleep with delight; The breath of the mouths of the winds had hardened on tree-tops and branches that glittered and swayed Such wonders and glories of blossomlike snow, or of frost that out-lightens all flowers till it fade, That the sea was not lovelier than here was the land, nor the night than the day, nor the day than the night, Nor the winter sublimer with storm than the spring: such mirth had the madness and might in thee made, March, master of winds, bright minstrel and marshal of storms that enkindle the season they smite. (SWINBURNE: _March._) _Eight-stress dactylic._ Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, impatiently bearing Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing and daring. (LONGFELLOW: _Golden Legend_, iv. 1851.) The breathlessly continuous character of such long anapestic or dactylic lines may of course be interrupted, by way of relief, by the substitution of iambi or trochees. In the specimen from Swinburne such a resting-place is found in line 3, where a light syllable is omitted after _winds_. In the specimen from Longfellow the words _high-way_, _distant_, _human_, of course, fill the places of complete dactyls. COMBINATIONS AND SUBSTITUTIONS i. _Verses in which different sorts of feet are more or less regularly combined_. In the morning, O so early, my beloved, my beloved, All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease: 'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, "Hear the story, hear the story!" And the lark sang "Give us glory!" and the dove said "Give us peace." (JEAN INGELOW: _Give us Love and Give us Peace._) Fair is our lot--O goodly is our heritage! (Humble ye, my people, and be fearful in your mirth!) For the Lord our God Most High He hath made the deep as dry, He hath smote for us a pathway to the ends of all the Earth! (KIPLING: _A Song of the English._)