LIBRARY ANNEX Cornell University Library PR 4785.H5P7 Poems, chiefly philosophical; in contlnua 3 1924 013 482 157 The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013482157 POEMS PHILOSOPHICAL, IN CONTINUATION OF MY BOOK AND A HALF YEAR'S POEMS, JAMES HENRY, M. D. "BegtSne, foolish babbler! I hate and despise theo ," Said Newton to Pdesy, turning his back ; But Philosophy smiling said: — "Ddst thou not know me, ,Thiae 6wu only Idved one?" and thr^w down hei mask. DRESDEN, C. C. MEINHOLD AND SONS. 1856. These thofighta, while through my brain they passed, were mine; Passing through thy brain, reader, they are thine; Use them as b^st thou mayst; who I am, thee ConctSrns as little,' as who thou art, me. CONTENTS. [Tilles are printed in capital letters, first lines in ordinary type.] Page Come , Mdry with the eyes so blue . . . . . , . ■ . 1 The wedding kihg . . . . . . 3 I woiild not, if I could, be wise . . 3 Cuckoo! . . . . 4 Julia ALPnruLA ~ . . . .4 MAn, egoistic, for his own self lives . . ... 6 A mdn and woman travelling by the way . ... . . . 6 AUNA MARIA PKIETH , . . . 7 Maky's WKAITH . .... .... 8 Labok and idleness. . . . ... 9 Old man. ... . . . . . 10 Vekt old man ... 11 Wkitten in the album at possagno. ... . . 11 It wAs a sultry July day . . 12 They lived through every change of wind and weather 13 How happens it that no one with his lot 13 The gates of sleep. ... .... .... 14 Death's bbide 15 Insceiption foe la baeonessa kitty fioeio's album 16 Wet and dry and h6t and c61d . "... ... 17 He she and it. . . ... 17 Democeitus . 20 I can put up with people of all sorts, if only they have money ... 21 Luck , 22 Good and bad. . . . . . . 22 . Pbovidence . 23 expeeience. . . . 24 Instinct ... 25 It hippened as a fox and wolf together 25 If thou would'st lead a quiet life 26 Might I 4sk, Sir, wh^re you 're Always 27 Will and thought 28 Paskewitsch Eestless as billowa of the sea Tkue friends. Tick tick tick. . .... I, being a boy, used thus to count my fingers "Why 's a priest like a fingerpost, you dunce? There wis a curious creiture . . *. . . The oap in the clouds ... in mine inn I '11 tike mine edse A doiible folly how to cook ... Said Vinegar- cruet to Mustard-pot once . Ten broad steps there 's t6 my lAdder . . . Beekdkiskes's sons, under a picture of gambrinus . Once it happened I was wAlking .... The hiiman skull is of deceit I am a, versemaker by trade . St. arnaud. ... . . . . Sometimes I 've with my Muse a miff Sweet breAtheg the hawthorn in the early spring King Will his seat in royal state . . . Well, it IS a ddrling oreAture! . Written in the album at pkedazzo. Within the convent of Jbhannathal . . I like the Belgian cleanliness and comfort Written under a portrait of cardinal mezzopanti Once on a time it happened as I was lounging in the Vatican I wish I were that little mouse . .... To THE key of my strong box. . . As my d6g and my cAt . A NIGHT IN MT INN. The nECRDiT. . .... . . Beaven. . ... . . Second thoughts. What d6g is thit, Sir, tell me, pray .... "If w^ll thou wouldst get through this troublesome Anither and another and another . Get lip, fool, fr6m your bended knee .... The WAT to heaven. . . . . The beggar and the bishop. T6ngueleBB thou 'st y^t a triple voice, gray lock Inscription for the tombstone of marat. L^t men boAst their Britus . . . '. . I don't kn<5w thee, Sirrow . ... Ah ! it 'b hAted dAybreak . . world" Pago . 31 ' . 31 . 32 . 32 33 38 39 42 43 45 49 50 52 53 55 55 57 58 59 60 62 64 65 70 81 82 83 85 86 88 89 90 93 94 94 96 97 98 100 101 102 102 103 104 i would n6t believe it .... Betrothed maiden sings. . ... . . EAt your odts, my p6ny . . Emigeant sings Mother's prater tor her child. .... The soldier and the brigand. . ... To Mr GRAY BEARD. ... . . . Evening ode . ... . . SAturdiy clothed in plain driigget ... .... Well now I 'm sure I don't know why in the world it was piit there On the ddy bef6re the iirst day Dire Ambition up hill toiling Ivr LEAF Why paint DeAth the king of terrors? . ... There wis a time when to our view "Tyrant, I '11 have my rights ;" I once heard say . . . Do go6d to your friend and Ji^ 'H do go6d to yoii Lucius juntos eeutus. . . .Draw bAck from the mirror; your image recedes My sister Mary's dog kap The author's epitaph .... ... Contention between nose and eyes fob the spectacles. There 's nothing I so much admire From his shroud the dedd man pedping What beneficent J6ve was 't, or Buddh or Osiris .... Tray No more questions, good friend, no more questions, I prdy 'Tis the little boy Mshing his t6p in the coiirt As in Tibur's pleisant villa ... . . ... 'Twas 6n the First of Jdnuary eirly in the m6rning The sou 's a poor, wretched, unfortunate creature . . . You don't like my writings, won't redd them nor buy them "I believe it," said Faith, "though I kn6w it 's a fldt . "Even the L6vely must die" — To be sure, Mr. poet . . Main Force with saw, hitchet and strong rope achieved . In the height of his glory said C^sar to Cdssius .... Sleep and Wdking 6nce a strife had .... While there 's 6ne drop in the b6ttle If rightly on my theme I think . . He 's dedd these long Ages, and All his bones mouldered . That I 'm much praised by men of little sense .... "Pdgan, forsAke your 66ds," the Christian cries .... Letter received from a reviewer "Obdy;" said Majority 6nce to Minority . . .... BewAre how you attempt the world to cheat Pago 105 107 108 109 109 110 111 113 114 118 121 129 130 132 133 134 134 135 135 136 136 137 139 140 140 141 143 143 ^144 145 148 148 148 149 149 149 150 152 152 153 153 153 154 158 158 's small mitter stdnza . . . "See bef6re thee," said H6pe, "where the pledsant light y6nder With pAUid lip quivering and fiery eye flashing . . . ■ PAst Time 's deid and gone, and biiried, and the requiem sung 6Ter her . ... ... . . . ... Hamlet eomeo and juliet. . ... The tempest . . Kino heney the eighth. ... .... Here I g6 up and d6wn, hop, hop, h6p • ■ AuF wiedeeseh'n ! . . . ■ To HOFRATH SUPELE AND HIS DAnGHTER EMILIA. . . . To PEOFESSOK GRATZ, ON MY LEAVING CARLSRUHE , Aug. 16, 1855 . August the Twenty Third, in Tubingen . . To DOCTOR E. TAFEL, ON MY LEAVING TUBINGEN, Aug. 31, 1855 "So th^re 's an end!" said I, and from the grave LnCEM PEROSUS. ...',. . . . Why so shy of deith, sweet infant? . . . Aeiite, observant, witty and profound "Tell me, Quintus," 6nce said Virgil Ask me not whAt her ndme was — it She never in her while life wrote one They aij I 'm 6f a Propaganda school Into two cMsses All men I divide . In feaulein julie finokh's album ... Providence versus chance and fate . No wonder, redder, that from all I say . . . Inscription for a lucifer - match box. (i). . On my bed . ... These verses reAd, and, having read, tell me This w6rld 's so fast progressing I do n6t despair to see yet The coichmau drives, the horses draw, the carriage carries Dives Woiildst thou convince the doubting world thou 'rt truly .... There Are two sisters ; 6ne with bright ... . ... In Efime's old dAys of glfiry*, when a citizen thought fit . . MUSINANDO. ... The ASTRONOMERS . . ...... Well to get throiigh this w6rld there 's fine receipt . Inscription foe a lucifer -match box. (ii) . . . . . . . Clever people are disagreeable, always taking the advantage of you . Eight for yoii 's wrong for me ... . . .... ... "Stop! stiy! let 's consider!" cried IrresoMtion . . . Summer 's g6ne — fled awij with his lilies and rises Maebach ... . .... Over hill and plain and vAlley Page 159 159 159 160 164 168 171 173 174 174 175 175 176 176 177 178 179 180 181 181 182 182 182 183 183 183 184 188 190 191 191 192 193 194 196 197 198 199 200 200 201 202 203 Page T^U me n6t how mdch thou liv'st me ' 204 i '11 not t^ll thee h6w I 16ve thee 205 Anniveksaky of sohilleb's biktsday. stdttgakt, Nov. 10, 1855 . . . 206 Oiit of the grive I took for love thy body 208 Go to, that thi'uk'st of Time as 6i a thing 208 Advice 209 to justinus kernes, the suabian poet. ... 209 As in the printed volume every piece .... ... ... 210 Die weibehtkeue . . ... . 210 Eechts steht der Aberglaube, AUes glaubend .... . . . 211 Der Abergliiub'ge glaubt zu viel . . 211 Warum, meiu Kind, sehn'st du dlch so nach Oben? 211 Tubingen ^ ... 212 In the nime of God we bind thee to this stake . . . ... 214 Cassandba. . .... . 215 "What 's the reason, Prometheus," once said Epim^theus 216 O inscrutable justice and m^rcy and wisdom! ....... . 217 Whither m such hurry ... 218 To JUSTINUS KEKNEE, THE SUABIAN POET, ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. . 218 What 's this? a c6ffined c6rpse? no, rdther say ... . . 219 The cause I 'd fain know . . 219 Bawsint malkin . . . . . . 220 His mdster dedd, poor Snap with troubled eye ... . 221 Goethe, thou sdy'st a p6em was n^ver go6d ... . . . 221 To A poet about to write in a lady's NEW ALBUM. . . . . . 221 Cesar and cassius. . . . ... 222 Inscription foe a lucifek match box. (m) ..... . 224 Othello sAys: Thy piirse is trdsh 224 So many mips, guides, signposts point the way 224 As I wdlked by the h^dge 225 QumS AND QUILIBET. . . . '. . . . 227 Pleasure lives not one instant — expires in the birth ... . 227 Give us beauty — we cdre not for strength . 228 Every thing tells on crime; the prince that kissed ... . . 228 A QUEER FELLOW . 229 The sun shines on me All the diy . 230 To William, half in' jest and half in earnest ... 230 Man 's a hdmmer, thou sdy'st, made to hammer hard nature . . . 231 Shadow 's n^ver fir from siinshine . 231 Jabyie time. ... . . . . 232 That min 's worth millions, but that man 's unworthy 234 As 16ng as thon faithfully 16v'st me . 234 In this Apple 's a- core, in that core there 's a pippin 235 Experience, (n). ... 235 Ad conscia sideba ' 236 Page If thou wouldst pledge the G6ds thou must contrive ... . 236 So it 's hunger and love keep all going . . . .... 237 He 's not a, wise man thinks much of the past . . 237 Insceiption fob the door of a club room. . . . • , 237 Jehu ... . . "oo Farewell for ^ver, ind sometimes a sigh ..... • 239 Modest, mild, unpretending, observant, inventive • 2o9 All the go6d which we see in this w6rld proves God's go6dness 239 Arabella my s6ng read . . ■ 240 To FRAULEIN EMILIA SUPFLE , CAELSKUHE, NoV. 19, 1855. . . ■ ■ 240 See yonder stately, spreading tre^ . . ... 240 Two dngels, separate or together, piy me . ... 241 Thou hitest monotony — Right . . . ..... . . 242 Undee a poeteait op the author . • • 242 Forget never to hold thyself evenly bAlanced 243 Well ! great p6ets don't dlwaya the best sense indite ! . . . . 243 What a pity thou 'rt childless! thou 'dst be^n a kind parent . 243 Prometheomastix .... . 244 "There it is. Ma!" said Ciipid, showing Venus a thorn 244 m\ no! n6! I '11 n6t believe it 246 Optio juliani .... . . . . 246 "When think'st thou will All men be 6f one opinion ?" . . 246 I tenderly 16ve thee, and pledge thee my tr6th . . - 247 I sweir what I kn6w, that I tenderly love thee 247 Love ... ... .248 Beauty. . . . . 249 Othello first loved Desdemona, then hated . . . 250 Put thy faith in the miracle, friend ... . . . 250 The Embryo in the womb or n^wly born . . . 251 And s6 into Kunigund's lively fdce ... 251 Mi,n with sagAoioua f6rethought penetrates .... . . . 252 May I bdg to ask why thou pref^rrest me. Muse! . . 252 To the depaktino year 1855 253 To THE COMIMG YEAE 1856 ... ... . 254 Art thou h4ppy? lo6k not backward . 255 On beading sobthe's elegies. ... . .... .... 256 The first rose of summer. . . . ... .... . 257 Imsckiption fob a lamp . . 267 The Agitating problem — which of all . . . . . . . 258 From blank nought to the womb , from the womb to the crddle 258 Of three dear maids, whose 16vely fdces . 269 Bad verses. Sir p6et; there ndver were w6rse ... . . . 260 Here I Am, your thimblerigger, kind gentlemen and Udies . . . 260 When every one 6f us has g6t his just rights .... . . 261 The great Eoman dictator, his baldness to hide . ... . 262 All Cesars since Julius have w6rn the laur'l wreith 262 city Come, my friends, let 's enjoy the good things of this w6rld Poet and prosodian. . . So h&fe 's at Idst the 16ng expected Idtter! On r611 the yedrs, leaves wither dnd leaves gr6w .... "HeAven, I think thee ttr this fine night;" Of all flfiwers in the w6rld, pretty daisy, to me . Joy and s6rrow are Equally pdssive; forced 6n thee Two things there are which you may safely say . . The clever rain the rdle makes, which the fool Thekb is kot ih all cheapside. T6 a splendid fiirnished hill . Mignionette in a b6x! Pangh! it smells of the ''Do," said p^rt, little, witty, tart Isabel 6nce The new "bakd's legacy". . . Wise too late. LiBEETT John 's n6t to my mind, I abdminate his lying "W^ll, the w6rld makes biit snail's pr6gress!" A forgdt-me-not grew by the side of the bro6k . . Wrong! as 6ften, my Schiller: the gdrdeuer enj6ys more Thou wouldst be hippy and know'st n6t that mould . Little children , tike it kindly The wise son of Jipet made mdn in God's image Toward hope's beicon far - gleiming acr63s the wild witers From my heirt to my heid, from my heid to my hind . He di^d, and the emincipated soul Every day thit I live adds t6 my ku6wledge Once on a time a thousand different men . . H6ney h^re and w6rmwood there . . I d6 not winder I 'm so often told ... .... I hite him, the liar, who with feigned words deceives me Poet and friend . . I 've ch6sen a bad title, I am told . . . "Trust in God's providence,'' the oyster said I think thee n6t for love or idmirition . . If thou wouldst se^ a pission t6rn to titters Chubch becediting sebgeants and beokuit. . Sunset. . . . . . PUELISHEE TO the ACTHOE. . . It 's a v^ry fine thing to be sure, I don't doiibt it PmLOSOPHns and philaksteus .... How go6d must be the author 6f all go6dness! Teuth. ... To MT LOST ONE . . . . Page 262 263 264 264 265 265 266 266 266 267 268 268 268 269 270 270 270 271 272 272 272 273 275 275 275 276 276 277 278 278 278 279 279 280 280 281 281 282 282 282 283 284 284 285 CORRIGENDA. Page 78, line 2 from top, iiistead of courteous, gay cicisbeo, read courteous cicisbeo, Page 131, instead of the penultimate stanza, read: Why? because the bee loves better Thy soft, pile, September blossom, Thdn bee ^ver 16ved the dry scorched Th^me of H^bla or Hymdttus. & -m BY THE SAME AUTHOR: LETTER TO THE Members of the Temperance Society. Dublin, 1830. LETTER to the Right Rev. Dr. Doyle. Reprinted from the DnBLw Even- ing Post of Jan. 16, 1830. MILIARIA ACCUEATlaS DESCRIPTA. Dublin, 1832. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A BiLions Patient and a Physician. Dublin, 1838. ACCOUNT OP THE Proceedings of the Government METROPOtiTAN Police IN THE City of Canton. Dublin, 1840. account' of the Drunken Sea. Dublin, 1840. LETTER to the Secretaries of the Dublin Mendicity Institution. Dublin, 1840. LITTLE ISLAND AND BIG ISLAND. Dublin, 1841. REPORT OF A Meeting of the Informers of Dublin. Dublin, 1842. A WORD ABOUT WAR. Dublin, 1842. A WORD ABOUT JUDGMENT. Dublin, 1842. THE FIRST TWO BOOKS OF THE ENEIS rendered into English blank Iambic; with new Interpretations and Illustrations. Dublin, 1845. COMMENTAKIES on the first two Books of the Eneis. Classical Mu- seum, London, 1848. UNRIPE WINDFALLS, containing I. Minor Poems. II. Letter to the Editor op Notes and Queries, being a Criticism on the style of Lord Byron. HI. Specimen of Commentaries on the Eneis. IV. Specimen of Metrical Translation of the Eneis. Dublin, 1851. MY BOOK, containing Minor Poems and Six Photographs of the Heroic Times, being a Metrical Translation of the first six Books of the Eneis. Dresden, 1853. NOTES OF A Twelve Years' Voyage of Discovery in the first six Books of the Eneis. Dresden, 1853. GEDICHTE VON James Henry, dedtsch von JcLins Schahz. Dresden, 1854. A HALF YEAR'S POEMS. Also DIALOGUE between a Stethoscopist and AN Unborn Child. Dresden, 1854. POEMS CHIEFLY PHILOSOPHICAL. Also CAIN, a Soliloquy. Dresden, 1856. ADVEESAEIA VIEGILIANA written for translation into German, and pub- lislied in that language in the Gottesgen Philologus, vols. XI, XH, XIII, XVH. THALIA PETASATA, or a Foot -journey from Carlsbuhe to Bassano, de- sokibep on the way in verse. Dresden, 1859. EELIGION, WOEDLY-MINDEDNESS AND PHILOSOPHY, being Stric- tures on the Autobiography of the late John Cheyne M. D. Dres- den, 1860. BEITISH LEGATIONS, a letter to the Editor of the Morning Herald, concerning the late aggression on the British Embassy in Japan. Dres- den, 1861. MENEPPEA. Dresden, 1866. POEMATIA. Dresden, 1866. Come, Mary with the eyes so blue, Come, MAry with the heart so true, C6me and let 's roam a while together In the bright, wdrm, sunshiny weather, Along the lane, beneath the trees, In the field or garden, where you please. For it 's not about the walk I care, Biit to be with you anywhere. If you don't like to walk, we '11 sit In the jessamine bower and while you knit. Or drdw, or work in filligree, i, on a stool beside your knee. Will t411 you tales, read poetry, Or lilt to my guitar an air, N6t that guitar or book 's my care, Biit to be with you anywhere. If less agreeable the bower, Come, let 's ascend the ruined tower That on the hill commands the shore And far oif hears the breakers roar. There, armed with Galilean eye, r Every spar, sail, rope we '11 descry In every tall ship passing by, N6t that for tower, sea, ship I care, Biit to be with you anywhere. If you will n6t the tower ascend, Into the wood our steps let 's bend And mdrk with what agility The brown squirrel bounds from tree to tree. Or he^r the oft repeated stroke That fells at last old monarch oak. Or gather mushrooms or see glide The clear stream by the gr4y rock's side. Not that for stream, rock, wood I care, Biit to be with you anywhere. You '11 none of all; well, Mary, no; Out of this spot we '11 never go. Smile but on me those eyes so blue, Beat but for me that heart so true. Here is my world, and other none I recognise beneath the sun; Beside you here I '11 live and die. Beside you 's my eternity. Tauebnhaus, Fehkleiten, at the foot of the Geoss-Glockser, July 17, 1S54; and while walking from LnjNZ to Snjis in the Pustertual, July 21, ISnl. THE WEDDING RING. LAt the pure unalloyed gold of this ring Declare the perfect love with which I love thee^ L^t the firm, c6mpact, indestructible metal Witness my love 's no evanescent passion ; And the strong, massy hoop, encircling thus Thy slender finger, typify the pale Within whiATTEL, Canton Schwyz, Sept. 19, 1S54. It happened as a fox and wolf together Were travelling by the way and both were hungry, They s4w a man approaching, 4nd to the wolf Thus said the fox: — "Here comes one of those ugly, Vicious, malignant creatures who for pastime Hunt wolves and foxes, and assert that Grod Made this fair world and all that it contains For their sole use and interest and profit. C6me, let us shew that God has some care too For wolves and foxes ; not that flesh of man 6f the great Mantuan and British pUnets. I know not, Homer, whence thou in thy turn Thy light hadst, whether from some farther sun Whose rays direct have never reached our eyes, Or from a fount in thine own self inherent, But this I know at least: those sceptics err Who see indeed and recognise the light But have no faith there ever was a Homer. Well! let it be, so long as they cann6t Rob us same time of th' Odyssey and Iliad, Themselves, their species, of the noblest work That issued ever from the hands of man; Not perfect, some have said — alas! what '^ perfect. What cAn be perfect in imperfect eyes, That must, were 't but for change, have imperfection? So, bldmed or blAmeless, get thee down, great Homer. Stand lip, forefinger; nightingale of Andes, That in the dewy evening's pleasant cool Sangst out of humble hazelbush sweet ditties Of Corydon and Thyrsis, and how best To twine the pollard with the vine's soft arms ; Then bolder grown pour'dst from the highest top Of birch or holm - oak thy sonorous song Of wdrs and battles, Grods and Goddesses, And Rome's foundation by the second Jason, Adventurous like the first, and, like the first, • Perfidious, calculating, cold seducer, Whom with more complaisance than truth thou styl'st The tenderhearted — I blush for thee, Virgil: Hadst thou no other fault, thou must go down. Stand lip, strong middle finger; thou 'rt Yenusium's W6rld- famous lyrist, mqralist, and critic. My heart's delight, judicious, J>ilhy Harace, Who, frugal in his plenty, aev6r wastes A word not by the sense required, and, liberal Even in the midst of his frugality. Flings free the useful, necessary "vfrord. Yet, Horace, thou 'rt for me something too much The courtier; for a prince's smiles and favors Too readily sold'st a poet's independance. I can forgive the purchase by the gi»eait Of ease and honors, dignities and fame. Of the vile populace' vivats and hurrahs. Of the priest's unction and the lawyer's parchm'ent, r Even of Hygea's ministers' leave to live A life of sin and luxury and riot. But I cannot forgive the port's sate Of his fine soiil to the demon Patronage — Too, too obsequious Horace, thou must down. Stand lip, ring finger; thou 'rt the Florentine, The hapless, exiled, eVer persecuted But still undaunted Dante, who in the dim Dark middle age the first was to hold high The beacon torch oi rational enquiry And boldly speak the truth he boldly thought; Wert thou less stern, less terrible, less just. Less Eschylean, hadst thou less of Moses, Less of that jealous and vindictive God Who punishes children for theil- fathei's' sins Even to the generation third and fourth, And h4dst thou taken Maro for thy real, Not merely for thy nominal, leadei? through Death's awful,, unexplored. Trans - Stygian land. And hadst thou oftener slaked thy knowledge - thirst At the clear, welling fountain of Lucretius, WILL AND THOUGHT. oiE Will once on a time, being in need. Called loiid to Thought : — "Grood Thought, I pray come hither.'' When Thought nor came nor answered, Will repeated Louder the call: — "Good Thought, I say come hither." When Thought, as marble statue stiff and dumb, No word replied, showed never a sign of hearing, Will thiis in soothing tone began to coax him : — "Nay, nay, good Thought, you surely wont be pettish, Or for an idle humor lose a friend; Come, come, I say." Still Thought nor stirred nor answered: — "Then as I see fair words are of no use C6me, I command you; come this instant, slave." As Thought immovable sat and either hedrd not. Or made as if he heard not, Will's commands, Will, growing angry, rose and went away And at ' the court of Reason lodged complaint Against his servant Thought for disobedience. Thought took defence and thus in open court His own case pleaded: — "I am not Will's servant, And never was; if Will says otherwise. Let him produce his witnesses to prove it.'' So Will called witness Popular Misconception, Who swore in plain, round terms that Thought was then. And from all time had been, Will's bounden servant. Biit the Jitdge frowning said: — "The evidence Is bad in law, being but of opinion; Rcm<)ve the witness if she cannot prove Either a contract or some act of service." So Popular Misconception being removed And Will to the question, had he other witness Whereon to rest his case, replying: — "No," The Judge declared the plaintiff was nonsuited, And, b6wing on all sides, dissolved the court. That night in bed thus said Thought to himself: — "Well, it 's a wicked world! my old bondslave, To wh6m from immemorial time I 've been So kind, so loving, so indulgent master. Sets himself up not for a freeman only Biit to be master of his rightful lord. Let me but see tomorrow's light I '11 try If still some further justice may be found In that same court which judged today ,so soundly." So 'twas not long before Chief -justice Reason Again in coiirt sat the ci-oss case to try: Thought versus Will; and thus swore Thought's first witness, A learned Doctor grave, hight Metaphysics, With small, bright" eyes, white beard, and furrowed cheeks : — "Well known to me from earliest youth, my lord. Both plaintiff and defendant in this action, And scarcely has a day passed of my life In which I 've not had opportunity To see them in their mutual relation Of slave and master dealing with each other, Will, menial slave, obeying master Thought, And Thought commanding most obedient Will. A thousand times I 've heard Thought say to Will: — "Come," and he came; "Go," and forthwith he went; "Do," and he did it; '^ Cease," and he left off; And never have I seen so much as once Will act except at the conmiand of Thought; And so well used am I to see Will actin;< Always in consequence of Thouglit's command That I doubt not Will's recent suit was brought" — "Stop there," said the Chief -justice; "until now Your evidence has been direct and valid, But in a court of justice the opinion Even of Ttdse Metaphysics has no weight. Gro down." "My Lord," then thus said the defendant: "This Metaphysics is my ancient foe, His evidence the outpourings of a malice Which never ceases to abuse all ears With stories of my slavery and dependance. This honorable court, I hope, my lord. Will not lend ear to the calumniator." But here the auditory with one voice Began to cry: — "Will never was a servant, And never shall be; Metaphysics lies; Punish the perjurer dnd let Will go free;" And when the Judge would not, but with loud voice Commanded Will to be bound hand and foot And to his rightful lord delivered over. Arose such uproar that the Judge his safety Sought in precipitous flight through a postern door; Whereon the mob with fury fell on Thought And Metaphysics; trod them under foot, And for dead left them; then upon a chair Uplifted on their shoulders Will, and bore him With shouts of triumph round and round the city. Walking from Azolo to Mestee near Venice, Aug. 5 — 6, 1854. PASKEWITSCH. Prince Pdskewitsch to Turkey went His rAge upon the rogues to vent Who v6wed they never would consent Czar Nick should have the management Of their Greek church; But just as he arrived befoi-e Silistria's barricaded door, Never let scho61boy such a roar Out of his mouth, at the first sore Skelp of the birch, As Paskewitsch, when trundling slow A cdnnon ball so bruised his toe That stopping down he cried "Oh! oh!" And right about faced, home to go, And in the lurch Left lying there his haversack And boot pulled off without a jack And train- oil -drinking Don Cosaque, And on Silistria turned his back And the Greek church. Walking from Schonau to Lichtesstein (Saxony), June 19, 1854. Restless as billows of the sea And agile be thy feet. Firm as a rock thy purpose be. Nor from the right retreat. Walking from Akco to Tenno in the Italian Tyrol, Aug. 24, 18.54. TRUE FRIENDS. Poet. iNivEE tell me there 's no such thing as friends, Steady, true, constant, without selfish ends; 6f my long life 't has been the happiness To have had some five and twentj^, more or less. Reader. Aye, to be sure; friends of the summer day. That at the approach of winter fled away. Poet. ' No ; sterling friends that ever ready were The worst inclemencies for me to bear Of wintry weather, hail and rain and snow, No less than sultry summer's burning glow. Alas! those valued - friends are dead and gone. Dropped off one after another all but one Newest and last but not least stout and true — Thou 'st never seen a better parapluie. Walking from Haag to Hainbach near Amberg (Bavaria), June 25, 1854. TICK TICK TICK. OOMETiMEs it 's slow, sometimes it 's quick. But still the clock goes tick tick tick ; And tick tick tick fi-om morn to night Goes still the heart, be it sad or light; But sad or light and slow or quick. Both soon shall cease their tick tick tick. TAUEKNHATTa. Fkuhleiten. at the foot of the fiaoss - Glocknee, July 15. 1S54. 1, BEING- a h6j, used thus to count my fingers: Stand lip, right thiimb here; thou art Greoffrey Chaucer, Grave, reverend father of old English song, The cleAr, the strong, the dignified, the plain; I love thee well, thy prologues and thy tales. Never for me too long, nor long enough; Thoii art my dictionary, primer, grammar; From thee I 've learned, if I have learned, my tongue. Not from the modern winnowers perverse Who save the chaff and cast away the grain. Yet, Chaucer, though I honor and admire And dearly love thee, there are in my breast Some de^p emotions which thou touchest never: Kind, gentle, tearful pity, dire revenge. Stern, unrelenting hatred, and sweet love; Awe reverential too of influences Unearthly, unsubstantial, superhuman, And dlmost adoration of the face Sublime of wild, uncultivated nature — Chaucer, thou touchest none of these; go down. Stand up, forefinger; thoii 'rt the arch - enchanter. Sweet, fdnciful, delicious, playful Shakespeare, "With his hobgoblins, fairies. Bottom, Puck, His rdbbers and his ciit- throats and his witches. And b61d Sir John and all his men in buckram. And gentle Juliet and impassioned Romeo, And blo6dy Richard wooing lady Ann Or studying prayers between two reverend bishops. But charming though thou art and captivatiilg, And loved within the cockles of my heart, I 've yet a crow to pluck with thee, my Shakespeare; For when thou shouldst be noble thou 'rt oft mean, And full of prattle when thou shouldst be brief. And, like a miser doating grown and blind, Stiiffest int6 thy bags of gems and gold, N(3t the pure metals only but false coins And vile alloys groped out of mire and dirt. Which even the scavenger had disdained to touch — I 'm s6rry, Shakespeare, but thou must go down. Stand lip, strong middle finger; thou 'rt John Milton, Monarch of England's poets , prince of verse ; I 16ve thy deep, harmonious, flowing numbers. Thy sdnse, thy learning, gravity and knowledge. Thy rational Adam, and sweet, hapless Eve; Biit I like n6t thy bitter polemics. Thy smdll philosophy and mean religion. Nor thdt inflexible, obdurate temper Thou borrowedst from the temper of the times; No venial faults are these, so get thee down. Stand lip, ring finger; thou 'rt accomplished Pope, Melodious minstrel of the rounded rhyme, Phil6sopher and satirist and wit, Aciite, dogmatic, antithetic, bright. The p6et of the reason not the heart, A pedagogue who lashes and instructs, A rhetorician l^ss loved than admired, Wh6, when we ask him for a tender tale. ReMs us a syllogism, a dry prelection; Y^t for his brilliant wit's sake and his keen Well merited scotirgings of that vicious age , And for the noble height at which he stood Ab6ve religion's vile hypocrisy I could forgive his frailties and forget; Hdd he but with more conscientious hand, More skilled, more diligent, less imaginative, Painted his English portrait of great Homer — Thou must go down, Pope, I love others better. Stand up , weak little - finger ; thou art Goldsmith, Simple and tenderhearted to a fault. The biitt of witlings, even of his best friends, Johnson and Burke and Reynolds, coarser natures But little capable of understanding, Or duly valuing had they understood. The poet's almost childish inexpertness In life's conventionalities, masquerade, And siibtle thimble-rig and hocus-pocus. Y6t his sweet Auburn, Traveller, Venison - Haunch, Good, simple Vicar and queer Tony Lumpkin Shall fill their separate niches in Fame's temple When f^w shall ask what was 't churl Johnson wrote, Burke talked about, or cold Sir Joshua painted. Still dll too soft thy gentle genius, Goldsmith, And la&re the wax resembling which receives, Thdn the hard st6ne which stamps, the strong impression; I 16ve thee w611, but yet thou must go down. Stand lip, left thumb here; thou art mighty Homer, Bright m6rning sun of poesie heroic. Whose bedms far -darting west are with redoubled Splendor and beauty from the disks reflected 35 3* 6f the great Mantuan and British planets. I kn6w not, Homer, whence thou in thy turn Thy light hadst, whether from some farther sun Whose rays direct have never reached our eyes, Or from a fount in thine own self inherent, But this I know at least : those sceptics err Who see indeed and recognise the light But have no faith there ever was a Homer. Well! let it be, so long as they cann6t E6b us same time of th' Odyssey and Iliad, Themselves, their species, of the noblest work That issued ever from the hands of man; Not perfect, some have said — alas! what '§ perfect, What c4n be perfect in imperfect eyes, That must, were 't but for change, have imperfection? So, blamed or blameless, get thee down, great Homer. Stand lip, forefinger; nightingale of Andes, That in the dewy evening's pleasant cool S4ngst out of humble hazelbush sweet ditties Of C6rydon and Thyrsis, and how best To twine the p611ard with the vine's soft arms; Then b61der grown pour'dst from the highest top Of birch or holm-oak thy sonorous song Of w4rs and battles, Gods and Goddesses, And Edme's foundation by the second Jason, Adventurous like the first, and, like the first, • Perfidious, calctilating, cold seducer, Wh6m with more complaisance than truth thou styl'st The tenderhearted ^ I blush f6r thee, Virgil; Hddst thou no other fault, thou must go down. Stand lip, strong middle finger; tljou 'rt Yenusiuiu's W6rld- famous lyrist, moralist, and critic, My heart's delight, judicious, pithy Horace, Who, frugal in his plenty, iievfir waistes A word not by the sense required, tod, liberal Even in the midst of his frugality. Flings fre6 the useful, necessary woifd. Yet, Horace, thou 'rt for me something too much The courtier ; for a prince-'s smiles and favors Too readily sold'st a poet's independance. I can forgive the purchase by the greal; Of ease and honors, dignities and fame. Of the vile populace' vivats and hurrahs. Of the priest's linction and the lawyer's parchment, Even of Hygea's ministers' leave to live A life of sin and luxury and riot. But I cannot forgive the po^et's sal's Of his fine soul to the demon PMron-age — Too, to6 obsequious Horace, thou must down. Stand up, ring fingei?; thou 'rt the Florentinf, The hapless, exiled, ever persecuted But still undaunted Dante, whO' in the dim Dark middle age the first was to hold high The bedcon torch jof rational enquiry And boldly speak the truth he boldly thought; Wert thou less stern, less terrible, less just, Less Eschylean, hadst thou less of Moses, Less of that jealous and vindictive God Who punishes children for their fathers' sins Even to the generation third and fourth. And hadst thou taken Marc for thy real. Not merely for thy nominal, leader through Death's 4wful, unexplored. Trans - Stygian land, And hadst thou oftener slaked thy knowledge - thirst At the clear, welling fountain of Lucretius, And n6t kept drawing still unwholesome draughts Out of Saint Basil's, Hilary's, Chrysostom's And Athanasius' duckmeat - mantled pools, I doubt if in my heart I could have found it To s4y, as now I say: Dante, go down. Stand lip here, little finger; thou 'rt the pensive, Delicate, gentle, nobleminded Schiller, Tender white -rose frostnipped in Weimar's garden Ere it had raised its modest head above Luxuriant Goethe's all too neighbouring shade. Redundancy of words, enthusiasm, Subj^ctiveness (youth's faults) are thy faults, Schiller! Amiable weaknesses which every day Of 16nger life had sobered, curtailed, cured — Diis aliter visum; so thou must go down. S6, being a b6y, I used to count my fingers, And s6 in manhood sometimes count them still In the late gloaming or the early morn Or when I sleepless lie at deep midnight. Walking from Sanot Anton on the Adlebbekq (German Ttkol) to Teupeh in Canton Appenzell, Sept. 6 — 10, 1854. Why 's a priest like a fingerpost, you dunce?" Said a schoolmaster to his pupil once; "I think I know," replied the roguish elf; "He points the way, but never goes himself." Walking from Unterbkdck to Kbeutzsthassen near Munich , July 4 , 1854. IHERE wks a curious creature Lived ra&aj years ago; Don't ^sk me what its ndme was, For I myself don't know; But 'twds a curious creature, So delicately made It coiild not bear the sunshine, It scdrce could bear the shade. Its judgment was defective. Its memory was weak. Until it was two yedrs old Not one word could it speak. Capricious in its temper, And grave by fits, then gay, It seldom liked tom6rrow The thing it liked today. When 't m^t a little trouble 'Twould hedve a doleful sigh, CUsp its forepaws together And loudly sob and cry; And th^n when something pleased it 'Twould fdll into a fit And w6rk in such convulsions You 'd think its sides would split With little taste for l^bor. And wekry soon of rest, It seemed Mways in a puzzle Whicli 6f the two was best. So Mer a while's Ubor It would sit down and say: — • "This 14b or is a killing thing, I 11 work no more today." Then dfter a while's sitting 'Twould_ fold its arms and cry : ■ "Donothing 's such a weAriness I 'd Almost rather die." As f6x or magpie clever, And full of guile and art, Its chiefest study ever Was how to hide its heart; And seldom through its features Could you its thoughts discern, Or whAt its feelings towards you From words or manner le0,rn. Fierce , unrelenting, cruel, Bloodshed was its delight; To give pain, its chief pleasure From m6rning until night; All kinds of beasts, birds, fish^, 'Twould fall upon and kill, And n6t even its own like spare. Its hungry maw to fill ; And wh^n it coxild no more eat , But was stuiled up t6 the throat, 'Twould hunt them down for pAstime, And 6n their anguish gloat. Of imitative manners, And a baboon in shape, Some naturalists will hAve it, It wis a kind of ape; But I would not believe it Though deposed to upon oath — Such calumnies to credit Wise men were ever loath; And All the ancient records Unanimous declare It was God's own legitimate Likeness and son and heir, That f6r some seventy jeirs should Live wickedly, then die And turn into an aingel And fly up to the sky; And there in the blue 6ther With God for ever dwell. Oft wondering how it cAme there When 't should have been in hell. Begun at Akco in the Italian Tybol, Aug. 24,,, 1854; finished while walking from Ca>ipi(JLIO across the Val di Non and over the Pallade to Spondtni at the foot of the Obteleb, Aug. 29 to ■ Sept. 2, 1854. THE GAP IN THE CLOUDS.* It happened as one summer day I walked From Kiissnacht round the Righi's foot to Schwyz, And had behind me left Tell's Hollow Way And the green, sloping banks of Zug's clear lake, That locking up I saw a gap in the clouds And dsking what had made it, was informed 'Twas left there by the fall of Rossberg mountain Whose ruins strewed the valley at my feet. Doubting, as usual, and incredulous. Again I lo6ked up, at and through the gap, And sAw beyond it in the clear, blue ether The figure of a man with open shirtneck, SeAted and writing something upon papers Which ^ver and anon down through the gap He scattered to the ground. One near me fallen I picked up, curious, and began to read; But being no lover of non sequiturs And Baggings of the Argument and mean And vulgar thoughts dressed up in melodrama, * Mountains have fallen Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock Booking their Alpine brethren; filling up The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters , Damming the rivers with a sudden dash Which crushed the waters into mist, and made Their fountains find another channel — thus. Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg. And not being over patient of bad English, And holding still that sdpere is the basis Of dll good writing whether prose or verse, I so(5n grew weary and threw down the paper, And on my wAy to Schwyz sped and no more Thought of the gap in the clouds or of the writer. Walking from Kussnacht to Lucerne, Sept. 21, 1854. "I '11 take mine ease in mine inn." In mine inn I '11 tAke mine e4se, In mine inn do whdt I please; fn mine inn my pipe I '11 sm6ke, Redd the n^ws and crdck my joke, Edt my pudding, drink my wine, G6 to bed when 1 incline. And if I the bdrmaid kiss Wh6 's to sAy I did amiss? Wh^n to visit you I g6 Knock knock knock! door 's Answered sl(5w: "Master Mistress n6t at h6me; D6n't know wh6n back they will come; CAU again at six, seven, eight; Almost sure they '11 stAy out Idte." Wh4n to visit m^ you come And by chdnce find m^ at home I must sit and wait on y6u Maybe a good hour or tw6; Let my business press or not There I km, nailed to the spot, And my wife and children too, Paying c6niplina^nts to you. To my inn door wh^n I come I enquire not wlio 's at home, Walk in straight, hang up my hdt, Order this and order that, Right before the fire sit down. Call the waiter lout and lown ff I must five minutes wait Ere the chop smokes on my pl4te. Him that first invented inns G6d forgive him all his sins; When he comes to Paradise gdte. Early Ut it be or late, Good Saint Peter, 6pen straight; 'Twere a shdme to mike him wait Whose house do6r stood 6pen still; f '11 go bail he '11 p4y his bill. in mine inn I '11 t4ke mine ease. In mine inn do what I please, In mine inn I '11 hdve my iling, Laugh and d4nce and play and sing Till the jiigs and glasses ring. And not envy queen or king. Walking from Raskach over the Fbeiersbekq to Oppenau in the Black Forest (Badeh), Octob. 11, 1854. A DOUBLE folly how to cook If yoii desire to know, Yoii '11 find it in a cookery book That s(5me score years ago Was printed for. the use of cooks Who well had learned to read; I Ve tri6d it often, and still found The recip^ succeed. You 11 t4ke the first young man you meet That 's hdndsome and well made, And dress him in a brAn-new suit Of cl6thes of any shade ; But blue and drab, or brown and white. Is said to be the best; His gl6ves must be of yellow kid. Of patterned silk his vest. His gl6ssy, lacquered boots, too small To hold with ease his toes. Should gMnee and sparkle in the sun At every step he goes. Both checks should be scraped close and clean, But I advise you spare Just in the middle of his ohin One little tuft of hair; And leAve upon his upper lip Enough to take a twirl — In 411 as much hair as may show He 's not all oiit a girl. And then you 11 teach him airs genteel, And w6rds of import small About religion, politics. And the last fancy-ball. When your young mdn is thus prepared, Look round until you find A mite for him as suitable In person as in mind. Simple and dignified must be Her boarding -school -taught mien. And for the last five years her age S6mething about eighteen. She miist have learned a mincing gait, And not to swing her arms; And can she sit bolt upright straight 'Twill double all her charms. Ignorance of things she knows right well Her lo6ks must always show, And things she 's wholly ignorant of She must pretend to know. Never must sh6 behind her look While walking in the street; Her eyes and those of a young man Must never, never meet. But she may peep behind the blinds When in the room 's no 6ne, And watch what in the opposite house Or street is going on. She miist have learned neat angle hand And h(5w to fold a note; Biilwer and Byron understand, And on dear children doat. Biit above All things she must love The 6nly, one, true church, And heresy and unbelief Hate, as bold boys the birch. They 're reddy now, the youth and maid, And need but to be brought — Mind well! — • by accident together And without all forethought. Two rainstreams on the window pane You 've se6n together run. Two po61s of milk upon a tray You 've se6n blend into one. So youth and maid bring them but near Are siire to coalesce; Certain the fact, although the cause May hdrder be to guess: Grammarians hold it for the acc6rd Of similar tense and case, Attraction, it 's by chemists called. Of dcid for a base. Musicians call it the concord Of 6ctaves lowei' and higher, Phildsophers the sympathy Of puppets on one wire. Geologists find even hard stone Griven to conglomerate, And not a botanist but knows Each plant turns toward a mate: All may be right or all be wrong For Anything I know, Bey6nd the simple matter of fact It 's not for me to go. They 've seen each other at a friend's; Well done! you 've now to choose A place convenient to them both For frequent rendezvous. The mdll 's too public, and almost As public evening Tea; 'Twere a real pity your good work Should spoiled by tattling be; Biit in a Propaganda school As 6ften as they please They '11 come together, youth and maid, In safety and at ease. Here while he teaches little boys She girls their catechism, From him to her from her to him Streams fAst the magnetism. Your work is done; yoixr youth and maid No m6re need of your care; Left to kind heaven and to themselves They are a wedded pair. A double folly so they cooked Some twenty years ago, But why so called the excellent dish Ask not, for I don't know; But this I know, the recipe Succeeds even in these days. And merits of all culinary Connoisseurs the praise. Walking across the mountains from Coktina in Val Ampezzo to Pkedazzo in Vaf- Fieme , July 24 — 26, 1854. oAID Vinegar-cruet to Mustard-pot once: — "I wish you knew how to behave; What pleasure can any one take in the feast, While yoii keep still looking so grave?" "Excuse me, dear Vinegar- ci-uet," replied Mustard-pot, "I 've been thinking this hour How hAppy we 'd all be and merry the feast Were, you but a little less sour." Oppenau, in the Black Forest (Baden), Octob. 12, 1854. Ten broad st^ps there 's t6 my Iddder, Five on 6ne side, five on th' 6ther; On one side I mount my Iddder, And come d6wn it 6n the other. 6n the first step sits a mother Rocking with her foot a cradle; Listen And you '11 hear her singing "Hush -a baby, bAby hiish-a." On the second my heart trembles To see seated k schoolmaster Slipping learning with a long cane Into k refrdct'ry pupil. 6n the third step Alma Mdter, Standing in the midst of d6ctors, Puts a red gown on the shoulders Of a young man le4rned and m6dest. On the foiirth step the same yoiing man Puts a g61d ring 6n the finger 6f an — Angel is 't or goddess? Kneeling by him at the altar. On the top step sits a fdther fn the evening by the fireside, Children round his knees are playing, Mother 's wAshing lip the teA-things. On the first step d^wn my Iddder Sit a g^ntlein4n and lAdy, B6th, with spectacles, and redding H6 the news, she Mrs. Trollope. 6n the second step down, a I4dy And a gentlemdn sit trying At the mirror, h^ a brown scratch. She a ghdstly r6w of white teeth. On the third step d6wn, a wrinkled Withered grdnny knitting s6cks sits, And a palsied 61d man shdkes out His pipe's Ashes 6n the tdble. On the fourth step down, two Armchairs, One each side the fire, stand empty; On two tdbles At two bedsides Libelled phials strewed about lie. On the last step down, two sextons Side by side two graves are sodding; Listen and you '11 hedr them clipping The soft hillocks with their sh6v6ls. Ye that haven't yet seen my ladder, Come look it it where it stands there With its five up St4ps in sunlight, And its five steps d(3wn, in shidow. Walking from Falkau to Tbtberg in the Black Fokest (Baden), Octob. -9, 1854. 4* BEERDRINKER'S SONG, UKDER A PICTURE OF GAMBRINUS. Gambrujus was a gallant king- Reigned (5nce in Flanders old, H6 was the man invented beer As I Ve been often told. Of malt and hops he brewed his beer And m&ie it strong and good. And some of it he bottled up And some he kept in wood. The g61den crown upon his head. The be^rjug in his hand, Beerdrinkers, see before ye here Your benefactor stand. Beerl6vers, paint him on your shields, Upon your beerpots paint — 'Twere w^U a pope did never worse Than mdke Gambrinus Saint. And now fill every man his pot Till the foam Overflows; No higher praise Asks the go6d old king Than fr(5th upon the nose. Bdcchus I '11 honor while I live And while I live love wine, But still I '11 hold th' old Flanders king And be^rjug more divine. While I have wine night's darkest shades To me are full moonlight, But ke6p my beerpot filled all day And i '11 sleep sound all night. So bMssings on th' old Flanders king, And blessings on his beer, And curse upon the tax on malt. That mdkes good drink so dear. Walking from Schopfheim to Gebsbach in the Black Forest (Badkn), Ootob. 6, 1854. Once it happened I was walking On a bright sunshiny m6rning Through the cornfields, gay and hdppy. Lilting to myself some nonsense; All at 6nce came a policeman. Caught me fdst by th^ shirt c611ar. Dragged me to the village Sessions, And before their Worships set me: — "H6re 's the fellow st61e the dpple, PleAse your grdve and reverend Worships; Now he 's in your hinds do with him As required by l&w and justice." "No, I did not ; it 's a foiil lie; I 'm no thidf, stole n6ver Apple; L6t me go, and the false witness Punish As your W6rships think best." "Not so fdst; it hAs been sw<5rn to: Your grandmother stole the Apple; ThAt 's the sAme in lAw and justice As if yoii yourself had stolen it. "So you 're sentenced t6 go Always With your coAtsleeves inside out turned, ThAt all seeing you may kn6w 'twas Your grandm6ther stole the Apple." ThAt 's the reAson, G^nts and LAdies, I go always in this fAshion; Thr6w no blame upon my tailor. The fault 's All my old grandmother's. SnMiswALD in Canton Beeh, Octob. 2, 1854. IHE human skull is of deceit As full as any egg of meat; Full of deceit 's the human skull As knj egg of meat is full. Some eggs are addled, some are sweet, But 6very egg 's chokefdl of meat; Clever some skulls, some skulls are dull, But of deceit each skull 's chokeful. Let your egg dddled be or sweet. To have your eggshell clean and neat The first step is: scoop out the meat; And clever let it be or dull, K you would h4ve an honest skull, Out you must scrape to the last grain The vile, false, lying, perjured brain. Veroka, August 19, 1854. I AM a versemaker by trade And verses of all kinds have made, Bdd ones to win me fame and pelf. And good ones to amuse myself. Of various humor grave and gay I p6etise the livelong day And sometimes sit up half the night Some Ment nonsense to indite About an Elephant or a fly. Or Annabel's bewitching eye. About past, present, or to come, About America, Carthage, Rome, About high, 16w, or great, or small, Or maybe about n6thing at all. I wish you saw me when I write V6rses for mine own delight; I cAn't sit still, I jump about Up and d6wn stairs, in and out; My cheeks grow red, my eyes grow bright. You 'd swedr I 'd lost my senses quite. But when I 'm set a verse to spin That shall be sure applause to win, Lord, but it is an altered case! I wouldn't my foe see in my place; In vain my locks I twirl and pull, And bite my nails, and thump my skull, My spirit 's ebbed, my wit 's at null; G6ds, but it 's hdrd work to write dull! Thrice -gifted Wordsworth — happy bard To wh6m that task was never hard! — Tedch me the drt into my Muse Not "gentle pity" to infuse. Or fear or hope or jealousy, Or sweet love , or philosophy And redson strong and manly sense, But pAltry cunning, sleek pretence. And h6w to give no vice offence, That sits installed in station high And mixes with good company; In all, sufficient skill to cook Some fiddle faddle, pious book On drawing-room table fit to lie And cAtch the idle visitor's eye And help the author 6n to fame And pension and a poet's name. Don't ^sk me can I nothing find More fitting to employ my mind And while away my idle time Than "stringing blethers up in rhyme" For you and other fools to sing, For I 'm as happy as a king: My trochees are my diamond crown, My anapests my purple gown, My pen 's my sceptre, my inkstAnd Serves me for revenues and land. And as for subjects — every thing In heaven and edrth owns me for king; So many have I that I choose. And take the good, the bad refuse; In the whole world, I 'd like to know. Where 's th' other king that can do so? Walking from Beuekn to Weingarten (Baden), Octob. 14 — 15, 1854. ST. ARNAUD. "On, to the fight!" St. Arnaud called Though faint and like to die; "Bring me my horse and hold me up, We '11 win the victory." into the fi61d the hero rushed. One held him on each side. He won the fight, then turned about And drooped his head and died. Bruchsal ill Baden, Octob. 16, 1854. Sometimes I Ve with my Muse a miiF, Sometimes my Muse with me, You 'd think we fell out just to have The pleasure to agree. Last night she came to my bedside And twitched me on the ear: — "Will, Miss," said I, turning about, "What is it brings you here?" "I 've c6me to sing you a new song," With a sweet smile she said, And 6n the tdble laid her lamp And s4t down by my bed. "This is no time to sing," said I And tvirned me round to sleep, "You would not trill one note all day. Your s6ng for morning keep." No word replied the de4r sweet maid. Nor tainted me again. But gently laid her hand on mine And sang so sweet a strain. So tender, melancholy, soft. That tedrs came to mine eyes And sometimes scarce the words I heard F6r mine own bursting sighs: — "Ch4rmer, sing on, sing 6ver on, We 're 6nce more friends," I cried; "A thoiisand years I 'd n6t think long. My songstress at my side." I turned about as thus I said, But 16! the maid was gone, Had tdken her lamp and left me there In the dark night alone. In vain I watched the livelong night, All d&j I 've watched in vain: But stAy — aye, thAt 's her 6wn dear voice. And here she comes again. Walking from Oppenad to Beuekn (Baden), Octob. 12 — 13, 1854. oWEET bredthes the hawthorn in the early spring And wallflower petals precious fragrance fling, Sweet in July blows full the cabbage rose And in rich beds the gay carnation glows. Sweet smells on sunny slopes the new-mown hay. And belle- de-nuit smells sweet at close of day, Swe^t under southern skies the orange bloom And lank acacia spread their mild perfume. But of all odorous sweets I crown thee queen, Plain, rustic, unpretending, black eyed bean. Walking from Achenkirchen to Seehaus on the Acuenbee, in the German Tybol, July 9, 1854. King Will his seat in royal state TAkes on Thought's (3cean shore, And "Silence!" calls to the loud -waves; The wdves but louder roar. "Back bAck, audacious, rebel slaves. How d4re ye" — the king cries — "How Aire ye come my person near?" The waves but higher rise. And first they drench his velvet shoes And then they splash his knee; The king's cheeks grow with choler red, An angry man is he. "What mean ye, whdt?" three times he cries, "Thus to assault your lord; Ye shall be hanged up every one — '' The w4ves hear never a word; And 6ne comes souse and overturns Him and his chair of state • — Make hAste, good king, and save yourself Before it is too late. Then comes another, twice as big. And rolls him up the shore. And says: — "Lie there, and call us slaves And vassals never more." "Minion," faint gasping he 'd have cried But 1(5! the wave was gone, And from the deep already comes An6ther rolling on. And breaks and flows over the king As if no king were there. And knocks about his chair of state Like knj common chair. "Enough! he 's had enoiigh," cries loud The foiirth wave tumbling in; "Now let him off; though great his crime, To drown him were a sin. "Down to this shore, I promise you. Unless he is a fool. King Will will not come soon again Thought's ocean waves to rule." "So b^ it, so be it," they all reply. And 4bb and leave him there To dry himself as best he can And gdther up his chair. Thdt was the first day king Will claimed Rule over Thought's free waves. And you may swear it was the last He dver called them slaves. Walking from Trybekg to Oberwolfach in the Black Forest (Baden), Octob. 9—11, 1854. Well, it is a ddrling creature! I could lo6k for ever At it; Livelier baby I saw never — Stdy — is it a son or daughter? S6n! I knew it — own Papd's self, Own Papa's nose, mouth and forehead. H6w I wish its eyes would open! i could almost swear they 're hdzel. Fie! no matter — I't has no sense yet — Six weeks! why, I 'd s4y six months old. Wipe its n6se — all 's right again now; Wh4t a sweet smile! why, it 's an Angel. Come come, don't frown, master Bobby — isn't it B6bby I 'm to cAll it? First son 's Always f(Sr Pap4 called; Cherub beauty! 16t me kiss it. Fi^ again! a spoonful fennel; Something siire 's the matter with it Or it would not twist and whinge so, Sweet, good tempered, quiet ducky. it 's the gripes; the gripes are wh61esonie; Quick the fennel; mix some sdck with 't: Dedr, sweet creAture, h6w it suffers! 'Tmiist be pain that m4kes it cry so. Give 't the breast; what! w6nt it tdke it? D6n't be cross, dear pretty Bobby; Pa wont hdve you if you cry so; Th^re there! g6 to sleep, sweet B6bby. De4r me! what can be the matter? Mdybe A pin 's running in it; Strip it quick; see! there 's no pin here — Podr, dear babe! what is it ails it? Hedt the flannel at the fire well, Dr6p six drops of brandy 6n it, Bind it tight round — n6t so strait quite — Still it cri^s as much as ever. Where 's the sdffron, the magnesia? I 'm beginning t6 be frightened; Biit it lo6ks ill! cAll a doctor; Stop, I think it 's growing quiet. Hush-o hush-o; whdt 's that noise there? Shut the door to, dr^w the ciirtains. Let no foot stir; hush-o hiish-o; Hiish-o, dMing bdby, hiish-o. N6w it 's quiet, it 's asleep now; Hush-o, darling baby, hiish-o; And it 's slobbering, th4t 's a gO(5d sign, This time God wont t^ke his cherub. What a sweet smile! it 's awAke now; T4ke it lip, put on its cleAn bib; Now 'twill tdke the bredst I warrant; How it sucks , the little ghitton ! Puking! lovely; it 's all right now. Wipe its moiith — another cleAn bib; Blessings on it for a fine child! It will be a greAt man some day. Walking from Todtmoos to Mekzenschwand in the Black Fobest (Ba- den), Octob. 7, 1854. WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT PEEDAZZO IN VAL FIEME ( ITALIAN TYEOl) where GEOLOGISTS FIND CHALK UNDERLYING GRANITE. BREaD upon butter spread is rare, Rare heels up and heads down, Grass growing toward the centre 's rare. Rare underfoot a crown; But of all rarest, granite here Lying on chalk is seen, And by some blunder chalk below, Where grdnite should have been. July 27, 1854. Within the convent of Johannathal, Before daybreak upon Ascension day There is a sound of m6re life than is common Within Saint Ursula's bare and lofty walls. Three times the porteress to the latticed windoTV Of the locked gdte has put her ear to listen If foot of prior's mule might yet be heard Or reverend bishop's up the valley wending From far Saint Martin's, and fourth time at last Hearing the hoofs, the portal wicket opens And to "Grelobt sei Jesus Christus/' answers With folded hands "In Ewigkeit, Herm Vater." "God gre^t the lady Philippina/' said The bishop and the prior entering the parlour, "And G6d greet all the sisters here assembled, And G6d greet trebly her whom here today, SAved from a sinful world, we are to add To holy Ursula's pious sisterhood." "I neM not dsk, Sir prior," then said the bishop, "if to our dear child Agatha has been Diily administered for seven days past Each ddy the sacrament of the Lord's body. Her hedrt being first prepared for its reception By fiill and free confession of her sins Even the most venial?" "As thou say'st, my lord." "And thoii, my lady abbess, of no cause Art c6gnizant why to this sisterhood Should not be added one more loving sister, Not planted in the garden of the Lord This sho6t of promise, this sweet, fragrant brancliV "i of no hindrance am aware, my lord, Unless it be a hindrance, to have passed In penitence, obedience, selfdenial And w6rks of mercy and beneficence The jekrs of her noviciate and white veil." "Then Idt the child attend us in the chapel, K re4dy there the coffin, and the pall." The youngest sister then the candles lit. And tw6 by two, each with a light in hand, They walked in slow procession from the parlour Along the corridor and down the stair And round the cloister court into the chapel, The ndvices before, the white veils last. Behind the novices the prior singly In gown and scapiilaire, the bishop then In purple pallium, on his head the mitre. And in his hand the golden, jewelled crozier. Between whom and the white veils the long train Of bl4ck veils headed by the lady abbess. The gredt bell all the while the death knell tolling. Meanwhile two sisters, beckoned by the abbess. Conducted to the chapel from her cell The 14dy Agatha pale, weak and trembling. And on her knees in front of the crypt's staircase Placed her beside a lidless, plain deal coffin. Of course black stuff her raiment; from her head Behind in lo6se folds hung the long white veil; On her white ndck a crucifix of jet; A gold, gem-st\idded hoop on the ring finger; Behind her and at eAch side of the crypt stair Stood motionless the two attendant sisters; Behind the crypt the altar hung with black; And curtained black the doors, lucernes and windows; A single dim lamp from the high vault burning. The tilling ceased as entering the chapel The sisters ranged themselves in triple file Half- moon shaped round the entrance of the crypt, The kneeling Agatha and open cofiin, In edch right hand still burning bright the taper. "Selected child of Grod," then said the prior Beside the bishop standing in the midst And putting into the maid's trembling hand The very crucifix Saint Ursula Pressed to her lips upon her martyr day, "if of its own free will thine heart accepts The w6rds thou now shalt hear the bishop utter — Words which for ever from the world divide thee. From fdther, mother, friends, and house and home. Brother and sister, all the joys of life — Swedr to the w6rd3 and kiss the holy rood." "Thou swedr'st," then said the bishop, "that till death Thou wilt be faithfal to the mother church, That to the letter thou 'It observe the rules And ordinances of Saint Ursula, Ob^y the lady abbess of this convent In preference to thy father and thy mother. And love this sisterhood more than thy sisters, Swedr'st that thou 'It live in chastity perpetual, SecMsion, poverty and self-abasement, ^And in all things conduct thee as becometh The bride of Christ, the adapted of the Lord ; And as thou keep'st this oath or break'st it, so Mdy thy soul when thou diest ascend to heaven Th^re to live 6ver in the joy of the Lord, Or be thrust d6wn io hell to dwell for ever 81 5' In t6rment with the enemies of God." "I sweAr/' said Agatha, and kissed the rood; Then, taking each a hand, the attendant sisters Upraised her from her knees and one of them Drawing the g(51d hoop from her finger dropped it into th' offertory held by the other; N^xt from her hedd they undid the long white veil, And loosed and 16t upon her shoulders fall Her gulden 16cks, then in their arms both raised her And laid her stretched at full length in the coffin, And the pall over her and the coffin spread, Leaving the head bare, and beyond the edge Of the coffin the dishevelled gold locks hanging; Then one of them the 16cks held while the bishop Clean sheared them from the head, saying same time: — "As these locks never to the head return, So thou returnest never to the world." Out of the coffin then the two attendants Raised her together, and the long black veil Threw 6ver her, head, neck and shoulders covering- Down to her waist behind; the bishop then Ndmed her Euphemia, and upon her finger Putting the nuptial ring and on her head The nuptial crown, pronounced her Christ's affianced. The Lord's own spouse now and for ever more, And, having given into her hand the attested Act of Profession and the Rules of the Order, Rosary and prdyerbook, raised both hands and blessed her And bdde her go in peace; then the abbess kissed her And 411 the sisters kissed her one by one; And having sung a hymn, all left the chapel: The n6vices before, the prior following, And th^n the bishop, next the lady abbess Heading the bldck veils, with the last of whom And youngest, tottering walked the new-professed, The white veils last, the gredt bell again tolling. The cloister court they round and up the stair To the refectory and collation frugal: Sausage and cheese and bread, and each one glass Of Riidesheimer four years in the cellar. The prior and bishop some short quarter hour Converse of things indifferent with the abbess; Take ledve; the wicket again opens, closes; The patter of the mules' hoofs dies away; Each to her separate cell the nuns retire. And once more still as death 's Saint Ursula's cloister. Next iij a messenger conveys the parents All of their daughter that they now might claim: The gulden ringlets sheared off by the bishop ; And in one narrow cell from that day forth. Strictest and holiest of Saint Ursula's nuns. In penitence and prayer lived Agatha, Except when morning, noon, or evening bell Cilled her to chapel, or her daily walk She to6k the court round or the high-walled garden. Or at long intervals in a sister's presence Spoke some short moments through the parlour grating With some once dekr friend of her former world. So f6rty years she lived and so she died. And other Agathas walking where she walked Her ndme read on a flag beneath their feet As from the court they turn into the chapel. Begun while walking from Eied to Sanot Akton on the Adi.ekbek& (Ger- man Tyeol), Sept. 4 — 5, 1854; finished at Teufen in Canton Appenzell. Sept. 12, 1854. I LIKE the Belgian cleanliness and comfort, The Belgian liberty of thought and action, The ancient Belgian cities, full of churches With pointed windows and long Gothic aisles And vocal steeples that pour every hour D(5wn from the clouds their larklike melody; I love too the soft Belgian languages, Walloon and Flemish, and the Belgian song, And Belgium's pictures — chiefly thine, Van Eyck! Unequalled colorist, and first who dipped In oil the pencil. But I like not all, Much though I like in Belgium; I like not Its hill-less, smo6th, unvariegated landscape, Where even the very rivers seem to languish; Still less I like its parallel, straight-cut roads Where seldom but to telescope -armed eye Discernible the further end or turning; And ledst of all I like him whom Cologne, Proiid of a little, fain would call her own. Though f6reign-born, him of the broad, slouched hat, The painter who shades red and with red streaks And bloody blotches daubs the sprawling limbs 6f his fat Venuses and Medicis, Susannas, Ariadnes and Madonnas, Always except his sweetheart with the straw hat. For whose sake I 'd forgive his sins though doubled - But other lands invite me, farewell Belgium! Thrice welcome, Holland] refuge, in old times. Of persecuted virtue, wisdom, learning; Mighty Rhine -delta, I admire thy ports Full of tall mdsts, wayfarers of both oceans; Thy cabinets replenished with the riches Of either Ind; thy dikes, canals, and sluices. And territory from the deep sea won By thy hard toil and skill and perseverance; But I like n6t thy smug, smooth -shaven faces, Sle^k, methodistic hair, and white cravats, And swallowtailed black coats, and trowsers black; Still l^ss I like the odour of thy streets Ere by kind winter frozen, and th6 far more Than Jewish eagerness with which thou graspest At every pound or penny fairly earned, Or it may be unfairly — so I turn Southward my pilgrim step, and say — "Farewell!" Two Germanics there are, antipodistic E4ch of the other, a Northern and a Southern : Sturdy the one, and stifihecked and reserved, Cautious, suspicious, economical, prudent, Industrious, indefatigable, patient. Studious and meditative and with art's And literature's most noble spoils enriched, That raised, three hundred years ago, revolt's Audacious standard against mother church And from that day has lived and florished fair Without the h(^lp of Pope, Bull, or Indulgence, And in its ndked, shrineless temples worshipped Its unsubstantial notion of a God. South Germany, less thoughtful, and preferring E4se and known wAys to toilsome innovation, Clings to its foresires' creed, and only closer And closer clings the more it 's shown to be Nonsense downright, hyp6crisy and imposture. Both Germanics my diligent, plodding feet From N6rth to South from East to West have travelled, From filthy, rich, commercial, sensual Hamburg T6 the far Draiithal and the Ortelerspitz, And from where in the Moldau's wave reflected The minarets of Prague, to where broad Rhine, Fr^sh from Helvetia's Alps and glaciers, washes Basel's white walls and weak Erasmus' tomb, And I have found the German, in the main, A plain fair-dealer without second purpose And to his w6rd true; seldom over-courteous. And always quite inquisitive enough About your nAme, your country, your religion. Whence, whither, what and why and where and when; And tdke fair warning, reader! shouldst thou ever, Smit with the love of that coy spinster. Knowledge, Venture upon a German tour pedestrian, Outside the limits of still courteous Schwarzwald, The watchdog all day long his iron chain C14nks on each bo6r's inhospitable threshold. And even the inn door in the country opens Slowly and sullenly or not at all To the belated, tired and houseless stranger. From Germany I turn into Tyrol; A kindlier, friendlier land; where tired pedestrian Though he arrive late has no growl to fear Of surly watchdog or more surly landlord, But greeted with "Willkommen!" and the smile Of busy, gay, key -jingling Kellnerin, Throws down his knapsack on Gast-Stube table, And After short delay is helped to the best Sausage, stewed veal, and wine the inn affords; Nor is this all; finds when he goes upstairs His bdd, though nothing wider, has in length Gained on the measure of his German crib Some good three inches, cleaner far besides And better furnished, but for greater width Than his cramp German crib's spare thirty inches He must have patience till he leaves behind him Not Germany alone but North Tyrol, And figs, vines, peaches, pomegranates and olives And brighter suns and warmer airs announce The European Eden, South Tyrol. From Val Ampezzo and the belfry Glockner And where in crystal vase is still preserved The drop of the h61y blood, I take my way With the descending Drave into Carinthia's East- trending valley-land flanked North and South By mdny a snow- clad Alp and ruined castle. And sown by many a diligent peasant's hand With melons, maize, hemp, here, oats, beans and barley. I rubbed mine eyes and wondered was 't a dream Wh6n I beheld once more the female face Oval and seemly, such as I 'd been used To admire in England, Scotland and dear Ireland, And had in vain sought through all sprawling-mouthed, Broad, prominent cheekboned, cat-eyed Germany. But handsome though they be, Carinthia's maids Detain not 16ng my faithless, wandering steps. And on the banks of T6ssin or old Tyber Or stretched at ease upon the sunny slopes O'erhdnging Spezzia's palms and placid bay, Behold me wooing soon a lovelier beauty. I like tbee, Italy, and I like thee not; Thou that a thousand years thine iron sceptre Laid'st he&vj on the neck of human kind From western Tagus to far eastern Ganges, And from the Picts' wall to the burning Line, Thine hour of retribution 's come at last And crushed beneath the tyrant's heel thou liest Writhing unpitied, not again to rise. First waned thy private m6rals, then thy public; Thy singleness and honesty of purpose. Thy vAlor, heroism, selfdenial; And though, of life tenacious, thy religion, Clad in a different mantle and with features Adjusted in the mirror of the times. Sits in her ancient seat and fain would thence Exile as of old the world and act the God, A time is coming when even Rome's religion Must tumble down and perish like Rome's State, Or don another mantle, other features, And spreading out with one hand a new forged And lying patent, tedr down with the other From the flagstaff the cross, and round a cone. Triangle, square, trapezoid or circle, RAlly new hosts of wonderworkers, martyrs, Voices and signs and omens and believers. Such shadowy prospect, far the field outlying 6f the myopic vision of the vulgar, Opens before my strained eye in the dim But hodrly clear and clearer growing future, And intermediate lying a vast plain Covered with camps and bivouacs and battles And charging horse and foot, and dead and dying, Defedt and victory, prisoners and- pursuit. And burning cities villages and cornfields, Rapine and wjiste and All the whole heart of man; And gro4ns assail mine ears and shouts of triumph. And cries of wretches broken on the wheel Slow inch by inch, or in the fire consuming, Or rotting underground in damp, dark dungeons; And, mixed with these, bells ringing, organs pealing. And hymns in chorus sung to the new God, And preachers' voices loud anathematising Christ and his cross, rude barbarous superstition Of a benighted, Gr6d- deserted age. iurn, weary ear and shocked, disheartened eye, And se4k refreshment in the happier past; A14s! there 's 10.6 refreshment in the past For ekr or eye; h6rrors and woeful sounds And sights of blood fill the whole backward distance : Allah, Christ, Jove, Jehova, Baal and Isis, With all their prophets, miracles and priests, Sheiks, Popes, Druids, Patriarchs, and Bonzes In battle melee charge and countercharge, Conquerors alternate, and alternate conquered — History, begone! henceforth let no man write The Annals of his kind, or dissipate The sweet and fair illusion that on earth S6metime and somewhere Charity has lived, And m4n not always when they used (rod's name Had fraud or blood or rapine in their hearts. StAge upon which so many stirring scenes Of the world's history have been enacted, N6t without awe I tread thee — here where Brutus Did his great deed, where Marcus Tullius pleaded. Where Br^nnus threw into the wavering scale His sw6rd's weight; here where Clodius brawled, where wronged Virginius' knife ended Decemvirates ; H&e where into the delicate, fine ears Of the world's master, the Venusian hard -And Mdntuan poured the honey of their song; Here where, resuscitated by the sculptor's Life-giving chisel, round about me stand In all their ancient majesty, reinstalled, The land's pristine possessors, heroes heroines G6ds Demigods philosophers and bards, Here is no puppet show no village playhouse. So far I wrote or thought, when on mine eyes Fell slumber like a veil, and lo! I 'm seated On the top bench of a vast circular building. Up next the dwning; on each hand all round Rome's artizans, on the stone benches crowded. Look down with strained necks into the Arena ; I to6 look down past the filled tiers and wedges, Pdst the dense rows of senators and knights. Proconsuls, Pr^tors, Heads municipal, And foreign princes in costumes outlandish. And delegates from the round world's three thirds. And past the Podium where on gold and crimson The Emperor lolled, the Fasces at his back, Into th' Ar6na, where in the midst I saw, N4ked except the loins and all defenceless, An old man and a youth together standing; And to the question who or what they were Received for answer from those sitting near me : — "A father and his son condemned to death For spreading blasphemous, Jewish superstitions Am6ng the vulgar, teaching them one Christ, A Jewish rebel, was their rightful Cesar, J6ve's bAstard by a fair Alcmena Jewess.'' As thiis I heard, two glittering swords unsheathed Were thrown into the midst, and a loud voice Proclaimed the Cesar's meroy to that one Of the two culprits, whether son or father, Who should the other slay in single fight, There in the presence of assembled Rome. Cold h(5rror chilled my blood as I beheld FMher and son, at the same instant armed, Brdndish the weapons : — "Hold," I cried, "hold, hold' And w6ke, and found me in the Coliseum, Sedted upon the ruined, crumbling Podium, Before me and on either side Christ's chapels And kneeling worshippers, overhead the cross. I kn6w not, Italy, whether thou art fairest In thy blue sky, translucent lakes, broad rivers, Thy pebbly half-moon bays and hoary headlands, Thine irrigated vales of pasture green. Thy mantling vines, tall cypresses, gray olives. Thy stone-pines, holmoaks dark, and laurels noble. Or in the interior of thy marble halls Where every pillar, every flag 1 tread on. Has felt Bramante's or Palladio's chisel, And ^very wall and every ceiling glows Fresh with the tints of Raphael or Gruercino ; But well I know that where thou shouldst be fairest Thou art most foul; in all the sweet relations Of life domestic, Italy! thou art naught: Thou know'st no happy fireside, no tea table ; About the mother, in the evening, never Gather the children whether sons or daughters; No book is read, no family instruction; Th' example of the father leads the son T6 the Casino and the coffeehouse. The mother, seated on her throne the sofa, Receives all d4y long the seductive homage Of her obedient, courteous, gay cicisbeo, And sees not, or cares n6t to see, which way, Or whether more than one way, roves the husband. The daughters, to the convent sent, learn plain And fancy work, a little music, spelling, Less writing, and no counting but to know Upon the rosary how many beads, H(Sw many Saint's- days in the calendar, And on the satin frock to be presented T6 the Maddnna on her Son's birthday How many spangles will have best effect. Ah, Italy! thou that so chaf'st against A foreign yoke, so kick'st against the pricks. Ere into thy long- unaccustomed hands Thou tak'st the government of thyself, first teach One of thy sons to govern well himself And his own house; the social virtues Precede, not f611ow, the political; An independant State 's created by. Ere it creates, good husbands, parents, children. Betwe&i me and my home lies many an Alp With mdny a toilsome, rugged, steep ascent. And shedr descending, dizzy precipice, And many a chasm, and Awful, black abyss. Ravine and fissure in the splintered mountain, To be crossed 6ver on the insecure And crdzy footing of half- rotten plank M6ssgrown and slippery with the drizzling spray Of the loud roAring cataract beneath. Fr6m my youth lip I 've loved thee, Switzerland; At scho61, in college loved thee; of thee dreamed While 6n mine ears the lecturer's dry theme Unfriictifying fell, or in my hand Forg6t and useless lay dissector's knife; And wh^n at last the college Term went by, And the damp foggy days and long dark nights Grave w4y to joyous July's glowing sun, With wh4t a light, elastic heart I threw My kndpsack on my shoulder, in my hand My wanderer's stdff took, and set out to scale Thy sn(5wy mountains, thy green valleys tread, Drink thy free air and feel myself a man! Lonely my wanderings then, my sole companions The river and the breeze, the cloudy rack. Or some stray goat, or sheep that to my hand, Expecting salt, came bleating; later years Brought me a c6mrade; a coeval youth, Wooer like me of Nature, by my side Step for step taking with me, the long way, The day tempestuous or the evening's gloom Cheered with sweet interchange of thoughts congenial. Upon this mossy bank we sat together. Twenty five years ago this very day; And watched September's mitigated sun Go down, as now it goes, behind yon Stockhom; From Merligen's white steeple on our left Rest rest, ye weary! even as now was tolling; And high above, high high above, the horn Of Morgenberg, the Jungfrau's frozen cheeks And Monch's and Eigher's glowed, as now, bright vermeil Under the lAst kiss of departing Day; Before us in the mirror of the lake The Niesen pyramid, point downward, trembled, And d6wn below the point the crescent moon And, 16wer still, gray evening's silver star Their linpretentious, mingled light as now Were wide and wider every moment spreading O'er the subaqueous heaven's fast waning blue; H^re on this bank we sat opposite the Niesen, My friend and I, that cahn September evening, Planning our journey for the following year Up yonder Simmenthal to well loved Leman; But to my friend , alas ! no following year Came ever; to his fatherland returned An early grave received him, and for years Long years thou 'st been to me a stranger, Thun! And thy sweet, placid lake, and Simmenthal, And well loved Leman. With the more delight Albeit subdued, I myself changed meanwhile. View from this well known bank the unchanged prospect. Mountain and lake, blue sky and star and moon, And snow rosetinged by the same setting sunbeams. Ah, that insensitive nature so should live While every thing that feels so dies and changes ! Yet let me not complain, for out of death. Death 6nly, comes new life, and if my youth's And manhood's friends lie in their sepulchres, I 've here beside me sitting on this bank The friend of my declining years, my daughter. Sharing the toils and pleasures of my travel And Mm me learning early to despise The brilliancy of cities, and to seek L^ss on the horse's back and in the carriage Than from the use pedestrian of her limbs In daily journies over hill and valley B6dily vigor; more the mind's adornment In observation and comparison. With her own eyes and ears and head and hands. Of wonder-working Nature's ways and means, ThAn in the formal, cold accomplishments Of fdshionable boardingschool or college Skilled to inculcate fundamental errors As fiindamental truths, and in the name Of reason, virtue and religion teach Grr(5ss superstition, immorality. And how to reason ill and falsely judge. But fdded from the Jungfrau's highest snows And Monch's and Eigher's, day's last roseate tint; The moon, grown yellower, 's sinking fast behind The darkening Niesen; and no more a lone Spdngle of silver on gray Evening's brow Shines Hesperus, but brightest of the bright Diamonds that sparkle in Night's jewelled crown — Come come, my child, let 's hasten to the hamlet; Mind well thy steps; the night 's dark, the way rocky: Good night, sweet lake, we meet again tomorrow. Walking from Petekzell (Canton St. Gall , Switzekland) by the Lakes of The Fobe Forest Cantons, Saenen, and Thun to Falkad in the Black FoEEST, Baden; Sept. 16 to Octob. 7, 1854. WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF CARDINAL MEZZOPANTI FAMED FOR HAVING SPOKEN WITH FLUENCY TWENTY SEVEN LANGUAGES. What a winder of wisdom, it has often been said, Mezzofdnti with twenty seven tongues in one hekdl Greater w6nder of wisdom — I v6w I don't m6ck — Mezzofdnti with twenty seven k^ys for one l<5ck. Walking from Aegenthal to Simmern (Rhenish Prussia); Octob. 29, 1S54. Once on a time it happened as I was lounging in the Vaticdn I met an old friend of mine, a very leArned m4n — "Now I could almost swear I know the very man you mean; A shilling to a penny, it has Cardinal Mai been." Done ! and you 've lost your bet for these weighty reasons two : He 's neither learned nor a friend of mine, that pippin-hearted Jew; Unless you count it learning, to be perpetually men's ears boring With his scouring of old bo6k-shelves, and pdlimpsest restoring. And unless you call it friendship that twice my hand he shook And kissed me on both cheeks, and took a present of my book; So much as this of his Eminence I learned three years ago, And more than this of his Eminence I don't desire to know. So to go back to where I was when you interrupted me: — "I 'm heartily glad," said I, "my good old friend to see; And are you very well? and when did you come to Rome? And what is it brings you here? and how are all at home?" "I 'm very well," said he, "and at home I left all well. And since yesterday I 'm here, and now please to me tell How things are going on here, and what 's the newest news With the Pope or the Consulta or your own sweet Irish Muse." "As for my Muse," said I — for I always put her first — "Of all places in the wide world Rome is for her the worst, For she 's always kept so busy here gazing round on every side With uplifted hands and open mouth and eyelids staring wide On painting, arch and statue, pillar, obelisk and dome And all the thousand wonders of ever wondrous Rome That I can't get one word out of her let me teaze her as I may Except "Please let me alone, Sir," and "I '11 do no work today." And as for the Consulta, it doesn't consult with me, And if it did I doubt me much 'twere long ere we 'd agree. And then as to his Holiness, I hope you don't suppose" — And here I looked as wise as I could and clapped my finger on my nose — "Dear Sir, has anything happened or do you anything know?" "Not I indeed, my good friend, or I 'd have told you long ago; But this much I can tell you and I doubt not but it 's true, And remember what I say now 's strictly between me and you: This building here 's the Vatican, this city is called Rome — And mum about his Holiness until we both get home." Walking from Wobms to Kkeuznach in Rhenish Prussia, Oct. 27 — 28, 1854. I WISH I were that little mouse Th4t no r^nt pays for his house. That neither sows nor reaps nor tills, But his plump, round belly fills With cheeseparings or a slice, Left on my pl4te, of bacon nice. Soon as spreM night's raven shades And to bed are boys and maids And silence th^ whole house pervades, Mousey p(5ps nose, whiskers out, Sniffs the air and looks about — The co4st is clear; right joyfully Out on the carpet canters he To take his pleasure all the night And sp6rt aboiit till morning light. -He has n6t on lazy groom to wait, Codchman and equipage of state ; He has n6t to shave, brush, tie cravat, Lo6k for gl6ves, cane, cArds and hat, This countermand and order that, But Always ready dressed and trim, And sle^k and smooth, sound wind and limb,. Springs out light -hedrt upon the floor, Cdpers from window to the door, From do(5r to window, many a race Takes round the washboard and surbdse, Nibbles the crust I 've purposely Dr6pped on the crumbcloth while at tea, Climbs up the wainscot, and a swing- Ventures upon the b^llpuU ring; Or scales the leg of the escritoire. Squeezes int6 th' half 6pen drawer, Am6ng the papers plays about A minute or two, then scampers out, And pAst the inkstand as he goes With such a curl turns up his nose As thorough -bred gentility shows And that your mousey 's too well born Not to hold literature in scorn. So h4ppy mousey sports away The livelong night till downing day. And 6nly then of sliimber thinks When through the window - shutter chinks Long stredks of light fall on the floor And milk- pail clink at the hall door Announces man's return to toil. Fresh cAre and s6rrow, cark and coil. And that an6n int6 the room Will biirst with sweeping -brush and broom Dowdy Lisetta, half awake, Her fussy morning round to take. Dust table, s6fia, sideboard, chair; Throw up the sash to let in air, Polish the irons, light the fire — Mousey, it 's time you should retire And le^ve your hdpless neighbour, man. To enj6y his daylight as he can While you lie napping snug, till night Invites you out to new delight — Ah ! mousey, if you 'd change with me How hdppy in your place I 'd be! Walking from Bruohsal to Heidelbebs, and at Heidelberg; Octob. 17 and 24, 1854. , To the key of my strong box. Iheee things thou testifiest, careful key: First that there is on earth something material — Vile therefore and corrupt and perishable — Which yet my fine, imperishable soul Prizes, esteems and cdres for; secondly That I 'm the happy owner of such treasure; And thirdly that I 've found a talisman Wherewith to gudrd it from the covetous eye And (3ften thievish, sometimes burglar, hands Of the innumerable hordes whose fine, Etherial, heaven - sprung, hedven- returning spirits Pursue with Appetite keener even than mine And more unscrupulous, the chase of Earth's Despised, reviled, repudiated riches. Walking from HEiDELBBno to Fuankekthal in the Palatinate, Octob. 26, 1854. As my dog and my cat At the pdrlour fire sat One cold night after ted, Says my d(5g to my cAt: — "By this and by.thdt You shall not purr at me." Says my cAt, looking blue: — "Sir, I don't purr at you, And I me An you no hdrm; Twere a pity that we Should just then least agree When we 're m6st snug and warm." Says my d6g: — "Mistress Minn, I don't care one pin For your wdrm or your cold; But this much I know: If you ke^p purring s6 I '11 to t(5wse you make bold." Snarly Sndp growls attack; Minnie Minn humps her bdck And jumps tip on a chair; 'Twas not she caused the strife, But she '11 fight for her life If to touch her he ddre. She has four sets of claws, And sharp te^th in both j^ws, And two eyes glaring fire; Snarly Sndp, if you 're wise You '11 not count on your size But ground Arms and retire. But the dog or the man Point me out if you cAn That bef6rehand is wise — Snarly Sndp makes a bounce. On his miizz gets a trounce That makes bleed nose and eyes. Snarly Sndp turns his tail And to me comes with wail And complaint against Minn : — "Nay, Snarly Snap, ndy; Those the piper must pAy Who the dancing begin. "But you 've both trespassed so That out both must g(3, For I l(5ve to be just;" So I called for the broom, And oiit of the ro6m Both belligerents thrust. Bruchsal in Baden, Octob. 16, 1854. A NIGHT IN MY INN. At NIne o' Clock, weary, I lie down in bed; At T^N o' Clock swdrms of gnats buzz round my head; At Eleven can it biigs be that 6ver me creep? At Twelve for the ticlding of fleds I can't sleep ; At One how that b61d squalling brdt I could flog! At Tw6 o' Clock bow -wow -wow goes the watchd6g; From Three oiit every quarter hour cr6ws chanticleer; At Four down the street rdttling the Mdlleposte I hedr; From the steeple the matins come pealing at FivE ; At Six to the mdrket the carts and cars drive ; At SivEN from my face I 'm kept brushing the fli^s; At Eight I can't sleep for the sun in my eyes; At NiNE comes a sudden tap t^p to my door; I rise in my shirt and barefoot cross the floor, Turn the k^y and peep oiit: — "Well, my good friend, what n6w?" "Please will you be shaved, Sir?" replies with a b6w A little, pert, ddpper, smug fdced gentleman With apron and r^zor and hot -water can; Struck with horror I slam the door t6 in his face. Gentle reader, imagine yourself in my place. With a beard such as mine, and a threat to be shaved, And All the night sleepless — how hdd you behaved? But I did him no harm, only slammed the door to — An example of patience for Christian and Jew — Then dressed, breakfasted, s6t out and, travelling all ddy. Passed the night in the n^xt inn much in the same way. Walking from Mehben to Losheim, in the EiJel (Rhenish Pbussia); Novem. 1 — 2, 1854. THE RECRUIT. Off I go a redcoat soldier, old England's lion cub, With my sergeant and my c61ors and my riib-a-dub-a-diib; Here 's my firelock, here 's my bayonet, here 's my leather cross -belt white. Here 's my shining black cartodche-box — March! hdlt! face left and right! There 's a hundred thousand of us, counting 6very mother's s6n. And not one among us dll knows why the war 's begun; That 's oiir commander's biisiness, our business is to fight, Down with our country's enemies, and Gr(5d defend the right. Good bye, my pretty Mssy, I 'm g6ing from you f4r; Think s6metimes of your redcoat when you hedr talk of the w4r; Take h^lf this'bran-new sixpence for a pledge twixt you and me. And every time you s4y your prayers, pray f(5r our victory. Come come, let 's have no fretting to spoil those pretty eyes; I 'd rather have one sweet smile than all your tears and sighs. Here 's a hundred kisses for you — one more for luck — don't cry - — And n6w I 'm off in earnest, good bye, my lass, good bye. Kkeuznach in E^nish Pkussia, Octob. 29, 1854. HEAVEN. oo this is He4ven/' said I to my conductor, "And I 'm at Idst in full and sure possession Of life eternal; let me look about me. MetLinks, somehoW; it 's not what I expected; Nor cAn I say I feel that full delight, That extasy I had anticipated. Perhaps the reason, is, it 's all so new, And I must here, as on the Earth below, Grow by degrees accustomed and inured." My guide replied not, but went on before me, I f611owing: — "Are you sure we are in Heaven?" Said I, growing uneasy; for I saw Neither bright sky, nor sun, nor flowers, nor trees; Heard no birds caroling, no gurgling waters; Far less saw angel forms, heard angel voices Singing in ch6rus praise to the Most High; But all was blank and desert, dim and dull, Misty, obscure and undistinguishable. Formless and void as if seen through thick fog Or n6t seen through, but only the fog seen, The f6g alone, monotonous, uniform, Rdyless, impenetrable, cheerless, dark; And 411 was silent as beneath the ocean Ten thousand thousand fathom, or at the centre Of the solid Edrth; and when I strove to speak I started, started when I strove to hear My guide's responses^ for neither my guide Nor I spoke humanly, nor in a human Ldnguage, for I had left my tongue on Earth, To rot with my b6dy, and had become a spirit Voiceless and edrless, eyeless and etherial, And with my guide, for he too was a spirit. Conversed by consciousness without the aid Of voice or tongue or ears or signs or sounds: — "If this indeed is Hedven," said I at last 0r strove or wished to say, "in pity bring me Oiit of the waste and horrid wilderness To where there is some light, some soiind, some voice. Some living thing, some stir, some cheerfulness." "Spirit, thou talk'st as thou wert still in the flesh, And still hadst eyes to see, and edrs to hear. And toiich wherewith to hold communication With solid and material substances. What use were light here where there are no eyes? What lise were sounds here where there are no ears? What use were substance where there are no bodies? Here cheerful stir or action would but harm - Where dvery thing 's already in perfection, Already in its right, most fitting place. Nay, sigh not, spirit; this is thy wished Heaven." "At least there is communion among spirits. Spirits kn6w and love each other, spirits hope. Spirits rejoice together, and together Sing Hallelujahs to the Lord their God." "I said that spirits sing not, when I said Spirits have neither voices, tongues, nor ears; And where 's the room for hope, or love, or knowledge WhOre there 's no hedrt, brain, ignorance or passion? With thy conductor there 's indeed communion. Siich as between us now, till thou 'rt installed And in complete possession; of itself Then cedses all communion, useless grown-, And thou art 16ft in thy beatitude, Untouched, unstirred, through all eternity; Without all care, all passion, hope and fear; N6thing to do or suffer, seek or avoid." "Then bring me, ere communion wholly ceases. Quick bring me to my mother's sainted spirit. Mainly that I might 6nce more see my mother, Kn6w and embrace and to my bosom press her. Longed I forHedven; quick, kind conductor, quick.'' "Thou hast no mother, spirit; n^ver hadst. Spirits engender not, nor are engendered. Shd whom thou call'st thy mother, was the mother Not of thy spiritual, but thy fleshly nature. Thou, spirit, com'st from God, and having dwelt Some few, brief seasons in the fleshly body Engendered by the flesh thou call'st thy mother Retum'st, by me conducted, back to Heaven, Leaving behind thee in the Earth to rot The consanguineous flesh, mother and son." "Then bring me to the spirit that sometime Dwelt in that flesh which mixed with other flesh The flOsh engendered which, below on Earth, So long as it lived, afforded me kind shelter." "Thou know'st not what thou ask'st, scarce spiritual spirit; Even were communion possible in Heaven Twixt spirits which on Earth had grown acquainted Through th' Accident of having inhabited Related bodies, such communion were In this case out of the question, for the spirit Which chanced to have its dwelling in that flesh By which the flesh in which thou dwelt'st on Earth Was generated, is not here in Heaven, But d6wn, down, d6wn at the other side of the Earth, D6wn in the depths of Hell, for ever there Condemned by the unchangeable decree 6f the Allm^rciful, to writhe in torment." He said, or seemed to say; with horror struck I shrinked, methought, and swooned, and know no more. Trompeteb - SCHLOESSCHEN , Dkesden , June 1], 1854. SECOND THOUGHTS. By a sh Allow, purling streamlet. Sat a lovely maiden weeping: — "M^n are fdlse; I Always thought so; N6w, alas! at Ikst I kn6w it. "Bredk, tough heart; why thrdb on 16nger M<5cked, forsAkendnd despairing? In this brook here I would dr6wn me Were there but enough of water." By a deep and rdpid river Next day sits the weeping maiden. Eyes the flood a while, then shuddering Rises And away walks slowly: — "M^n are false; I Always thought so; N6w, alAs! at lAst, I kn6w it. N4xt time thAt a mAn deceives me i '11 know wh^re to find deep wAter." Trompeteb - ScHLOESSCHEN , Dresden, June 8, 1854. "What d6g is that, sir, tell me, pray, That by my side the livelong day. Where'er I go — up, down, left, right — Trots steady while the sun shines bright, But when the sky begins to lower And gathering clouds portend a shower. Sneaks prudent off, and far away Lies in safe shelter till Sol's ray Breaks oiit once more on hill and plain. When 16! he 's at my side again?" "Your comrade of the sunny ray. That leaves you on a cloudy day, Pdcks up his traps and runs away — I 'd n6t my time hair-splitting spend — Must b6 your sh4dow or — your friend." Walking from Bebtkich to Mbhren, in the Eifel (Rhenish Pkussia); Octob. 31, 1854. If well thou wouldst get through this troublesome world," Said once a dying father to his son Who at his bedside weeping asked his counsel, "Thou must to these two principal points attend: First, thou must never dare to wear thy shoes With broad, square toes while narrow- pointed shoes Are 411 the fashion. Second, thou must never Assert God's unity when all around Maintain he 's triune. These are the two points On which especially thy fortune hinges." "But if my neighbours are among themselves Divided on these points, and some their shoes Wear square-toed and maintain God's unity, While some their shoes wear with long narrow toes And swedr that God was never but triune. What then, dear father? how am I to judge?" "Hold with the strongest party, for the strongest Has dlways right. If balanced are the parties, Especially if they wage civil war Against each 6ther, thou art free to use The liberty which honest men acquire When knaves fall oiit, and if thou pleasest wear Thy shoes even round- toed and declare thy faith Either in n(5ne or in a dual God." This said, the wise old man hiccup'd and died; And the son, ever from that day forth moulding Both shoes and creed according to the counsel, Lived honored and respected, rose to wealth And power and dignity and on his deathbed Left to his son again the talisman. Walking from St. Gall to Schwellbednn in Canton Appenzell, Sept. 15, 1854. Another and another and another And still another sunset and sunrise. The sAme yet different, different yet the same, Seen by me now in my declining years As in my early childhood, youth and manhood; And by my parents and my parents' parents, And by the parents of my parents' parents. And by their parents counted back for ever. Seen, all their lives long, even as now by me; And by my children and my childrens' children And by the children of my childrens' children And by their children counted on for ever Still to be seen as even now seen by me; Clear and bright sometimes, s6metimes dark and clouded But still the same sunsetting and sunrise; The s4me for ever to the never ending Line of observers, to the same observer Through 411 the changes of his life the same: Sunsetting and sunrising and sunsetting, And th^n again sunrising and sunsetting, Sunrising and sunsetting evermore. Heidelberg, Ootob. 25 , 1854. (jrET lip, fool, from your bended knee; God has no eyes and cannot see." "But men have eyes and see me kneel; To kneel to God is quite genteel." "Then kne^l away, but don't grimace; An ugly thing 's a 16ng- drawn face." "I b^g excuse; it 's so they paint Mad6nna, Magdalen and saint." "At le4st your oratory spare, The wheedling rhetoric you call prayer; Or for the G6d blush, who, to do What 's right, needs to be coaxed by you." "My rhetoric were indeed misplaced, Of good breath a mere wanton waste, H4d my by -standing friends no ear The humble, suppliant voice to hear, In which I let th' Omniscient know What we think of him here below. And how, if he 'd few blunders make, M^ for his counsellor he should take, And, in all things requiring nice Discriinination, my advice Exactly fallowing, himself spare Resp6nsibility and care, And me scarce less anxiety Lest All should not well managed be." " Inc6mparably honest friend, Pray on; my lecture 's at an end; There 's not a word you Ve said but 's true; I '11 kneel beside you and pray too." Fleurus, Hainaiilt (BELGinM), Nov. 10, 1854. THE WAY TO HEAVEN. Jack and Jock once met each other On a road that east and w^st lay, Posting both as f4st as able,. Westward Jdck, and J6ck due eastward: — "Whither, JAck, in such a hdrry?" Said Jock, stopping short and greeting. "Straight to hedven," replied Jack hasty, "Turn about, Jock, 4nd come with me." 'What! to heaven?" said Jock astonished; "Jack, you cAn't to heaven get thdt way; Heaven lies eastward every child knows — Come with me, I 'ni bound straight f6r it.'" "BAh!" said Jack, "you 're surely j6king; Why, it 's sti'aight to hell you 're g6ing. If you 're wise you '11 tui-n with ra6, Jock; Read the signpost: Heaven **'■■ wiijisk east." "WMt care i, Jack, for your signpost? All my friends have still gone this way; Fdther, m6ther, b6th grandfathers, All my uncles, aiints and coiisins." "For your friends I cdre as little, Jock, as you care f6r my signpost, Biit to 6nd our difference l^t us Ledve it to the toll-bar keeper." To the toll-bar Jack and J6ck go, D6ff their b6nnets, put the question: — "Grdntlem^n," replies the t611-man, "Pledse both 6f you p4y the t611 first." Paid the t611, says the toll -keeper With a shrewd shrug of his shoulders: ■ — "Gentleman, you 're free to tdke now Either rodd to heaven or neither." S6 the tw6 friends followed on straight Each the wAy he hdd been going. And I doiibt much either 's nearer Hedven toddy than wh^n he started. Walking from Basecles to Toubnat (Belgidm), Nov. 14, 1854. THE BEGGAR AND THE BISHOP. My lord bishop," said the beggar, " Thou and I in Christ are brethren, Let us therefore live as brothers; I 'II begin, do thoii as I do. "Here 's one half my crust and bacon, Htfre 's one (3f my two sixpences ; Now give me one hdlf the income Of thy see and presentations." "Yes, beyond doubt we are brethren," Said the bishop with a grAve smile, "And have both received our portions From the sAvue impArtial Parent. "To divide again were impious Discontentedness on our parts; Keep thou thine as I will mine keep. And let both praise the great giver. "Biit as I am boiind in fairness To acknowledge I 've the lion'3 share, Tdke this charitable shilling And my blessing, and no more say." Walking- from Cantrrbuky to SiTTiNuuonRNK CKrnt), Nov. 23 , tS54. lONGrUELESS thou 'st yet a triple voice, gray lock; For, first, thou speakest of a time when soft, Brown, glossy, curly hair my temples shaded; When supple and elastic were my joints, My strong heart full of joy and hope and courage. My infant reason breathless in pursuit Of fugitive, light- foot, ignis -fatuus Knowledge; A time when in my curling locks my mother Her fingers used to wreathe and smiling say : — "Heaven bless my boy and make him a good man." And next thou speakest of a time, gray lock, When prematurely with my yet brown hair White hairs began to mingle, and my motJiei- With tender hand would pluck them and say sighing: "These might have well a little longer waited, And spared the sorrow to a mother's eyes." And f would smile, and press her hand and say: — "Be of good heart; we Ve many a year before us, Mother and s6n, to live, and love each other. My vigorous manhood sheltering and protecting Her in whose shelter s4fe I grew to manhood." And last, thou speakest of a time, gray lock — A time, aids ! no longer in perspective. Distant and dim and dreaded, but here present — When the kind fingers, that in my brown curls Once wreathed themselves or plucked the odd white hair, Lie mouldering in the sepulchre, and I, Three fourths my journey made to the same goal, Pldy with my fingers in my daughter's curls And sigh and say: — "Already a white hair!" Such triple voice hast thou, truthful gray lock. Fontaine l'Eveque, Hainault (Belchum); Nov. 12, 1854. INSCRIPTION FOR THE TOMBSTONE OE MAEAT. OlaIn by an angel in the guise of woman Here lies that fiend incarnate, Jean Marat; The enemy of mankind. The People's Friend.' Alas, magnanimous Cor day, that the world Mtxst buy its riddance from the incubus At the too high price of thy virgin blood ! Lille, Dep. du Nobd (Frauce); Nov. 17, 1854. Let men boast their Brutus, Scevold and Cycles, Women have their gred,ter, Nobler, piirer Corday. Lille, Dep. du Nokd (Fhance); Nov. 17, 1854. L'ami du peuple. I DON'T kn6w thee, S6rrow, H4ve no wish to kn<5w thee, D6n't admire thy pdle face Dropping lids and moist cheeks. Yet methinks I Ve seen thee — Ah ! I now remember — Twice before I 've seen thee. Dismal, bMck- robed S6rrow. First when on -her deathbed LiAy my noble mother And with failing bredth breathed Blessings 6n her children, There beside the deathbed i beheld thee, S6rrow, Wring thy hands in Anguish, And the scalding te^r shed. N^xt I sdw thee, S6rrow, Sitting by my Ann Jane's New-made moiind sepulchral In the vAle of SArca. N(5 tear then thy che4k wet, Nor didst thoii thy hdnds wring, Biit beside the grdve sat'st Gazing on the fresh earth; 6n the fr^sh earth gdzing Motionless as sculptured Mourner in a church aisle, inside a tomb's railing. Too, too w^ll, I know thee. Stink cheeked, r6d eyed S6rrow; Hi6 thee to the graveyard, Here there 's no place f6r thee. TouRNAY (Belgium), Nov. 15, IS54. All! it 's hated ddybreak, And the dedr dreams vanish, Visions of the past time, FAces of the well loved. 6nce again she has left me Here alone to mourn her. She that bAde me fdrewell fn the vale of Sdrca, Waved her hand and said: — "Jame Henceforth w6 meet never But in dreams and visions Of the deep and de^d night; "Th^n we '11 sometimes meet, James, As of old we met oft, And while we 're together Think we 've never parted." Fly fly, h^ted daylight! Sweet night, come again quick! Till again I meet her Wh6 by daylight never Meets me since we pdrted in the vAle of S^rca — Woiild there were no daylight, But deep midnight ever! TouBNAY (Belgium), Nov. 16, 1854. I WOULD n6t believe it, Though a thousand sw6re it, ThAt the great and go6d Otod Punishes his creatures; Why did he so mdke them — Thdt same gredt and go6d God With those powerful passions And that puny foresight? Like the boiling lava, Like the howling tempest. Like the r611ing thunder, Like the flashing lightning, Riishing unexpected Comes the passion 6n them; When the passion 's on them, Where 's the power to stay it? Ah, the hdpless creatures! How they 're torn and tittered By the raging passions Griven them by the go6d God! Let it c6me more sl6wly, Stealthily creep 6n them, Still it comes as surely, The insidious pAssion; Coils itself about them. Squeezes b6nes and marrow, With its fings their fl^sh nips. Spirts its v^nom on them. Ah the hapless creatures Bitten, squeezed and poisoned By the venomous passions Griven them by the good God! He it is I 'd punish Who the passions give them. Not the hApless creatures Victims 6i the passions. Walking from Fleukus to Fontaine l'Eveque , Hainault (Belgium) ; Nov. 11, 185-1. Betrothed maiden sings. Welcome! welcome! welcome! Pretty cleft -tailed swallow, Twittering At my window Jiist before the sunrise. Where hast been all winter, Pretty cleft -tailed swdllow, In what pleasant warm lands Far beyond the de^p sea? Tell me hast thou se^n him, My hardhearted truelove, Who last autumn 16ft me And took shipping southward; For the south took shipping And alone here left me To watch for him Always And look Always southward. Yes yes, thou hast seen him, Bring'st good tidings 6f him: That he 's w611 and hAppy; That he 's homeward coming; Else, my pretty swallow. Tlioii wouldst not so gaily Twitter At my window Jiist bef6re the siinrise, But wouldst g6 and hide thee 84dly in some corner With the moping owlet And ill-boding raven. Yes he 's coming homeward, Pretty cleft -tailed swallow, Tell me the whole story. Twitter, twitter, twitter. Walking from Baii-leul to Ebblingiiem, Dep. du Nobd (Fkance); Nov. 19, 18S4. ii/AT your oats, my pony; 'Tis your mdster brings them, Feeds you with liis own hand, Loves to hear your whinny. Outside it 's a rough night, Rainy, c61d, and blowing; Here you 're snug and c6zy, To your knees in fr^sh straw. With old hay your rack 's filled. Eat and sleep till m6rning, Then I '11 bring you more oats — Pleasant dreams, my pony. TouRNAY (Belgtom); Nov. 15, 18.54. EmiyruM si)i(js. M<5t a day from hedven comes But I think a d(5zen times Of those i 've behind me Left in my old country, Of my father, mother, of my sisters, brothers. Of my aiints and cousins. Wondering how they dll are; Biit of thee, my NAnny, Each day I but once think. For thou 'rt dbsent never Fr6m my mind one moment. St. Omek, Pas de Calais (Fkance); Nov. 20, 1854. MOTHER'S PRAYER FOR HER CHILD, Blessings on my baby, God preserve and love it, Fr6m all danger keep it. Waking, sleeping, always. Don't make' it a gredt man, Grdcious G6d, I pray thee; Greatness is uncertain, 6f itself down tumbles. Don't make it a wise man ; Wisdom is mere f611y — Perseciited Always, H4ted by the wh61e world. But make it a kind man; Kindness still is hdppy, Even while it 's cheated, 111 used by the wh(51e world. TonBNAY (Belgium); Nov. 15, 1854. THE SOLDIER AND THE BRIGAND. Lawless r6bber, bloody ciit- throat/' Said the soldier to the brigand, "I shall see thee hdnged I hope yet, Wei-e it but as an example Th4t slow-fo6ted jiistice sdmetimes Overtakes the malefactor." "Licensed robber, wh61esale cut-throat," Said the brigand t6 the s61dier, "I shall see thee shot I h6pe yet, W^re it biit as dn example Thdt one-sided justice sometimes Is by Accident impartial." Stak Inn, Gilmngham (Kent); Nov. 23, iH'>4. To my gray beard. > It 's a bargain, grAy beard, Signed and sealed and published, Thou and I the opposite , High contracting pdrties. Thoii on thy part, gray beard, Undert4k'st to c6ver And, as fdr as may be, Hide from view the furrows Time has on my siink cheeks And about my lips ploughed, And bef6re, my toothless Shrunk gums h4ng a thick veil. Thoii shalt further, gray beard. All the livelong winter With thy friendly muffle Shield my throat and lank jaws, Making me feel winner Thdn if round my neck tied Comforter of Idmb's wool Or chinchilla tippet. Lastly, tlioii cngAgest That no one shall henceforth Take me f6r a woman 6i' dwarfed, withered scho61boy. I, on my part, bind me r Every ddy to trim thee, Wash, comb, oil and brush thee And in 6rder keep thee; Also to my lAst gasp Stoutly to defend thee From the exterminating Barber's soap and razor. S6 in strict alliance We shall live together, Sheltering And protecting Until death each 6ther. Of our 861emn treaty This the pr6toc61 is. Ke^p thou thy word, grAy beard. And I '11 triily mine keep. Queen's Square, Bloomsbiiry, London; Dcr. 3, IM54. EVENING ODE, ADAPTED TO THE PSYCHOLOGICAL AND POETICAL TASTE OF THE AGE. iIark! 'tis the meditative hour When the soul feels in all their power Its aspirations heavenward rise Drawing it gently toward the skies And high angelic colloquies. Welcome ! sweet hour of rest and calm, That bring'st the wounded spirit balm, That, mild as thine own pensive star, Stillest the breast's intestine war, - And bidd'st the passions cease to jar. Let n(3 unhallowed thought intrude Up6n my evening solitude. When faith and hope with taper bright Scattering the darkness of the night Shed all around extatic light. Pointing to realms of bliss above. Regions of innocence and love. Where never breast shall heave a sigh, Where n^ver tear shall dim the eye. Where n6ne are born and none shall die ; Where spirits, that here lived in pain Dragging their sordid earthly chain, In -entering at the narrow door Shall bdthe in bliss for evermore Upon a safe and stormless shore. Dai.ket Lodge, Dalket (Ireland), Febr. 9, 1855. Saturday clothed in plain drugget And with c^re and hdrd work worn out. Happened once to meet her idle. 8ister Siinday in her sAtins: — "I 'm so glad to meet you, sister," Saturday in hiimble tone said, "For I know you 're tenderhearted And will lend a hand to help me. "From before daylight this morning I Ve been washing up and scrubbing, Brushing, dusting, regulating, Till T 've not a bone but 's aching. "Oi'nne, do put your hdnd to, sister; Exercise you know is wholesome And a sovereign ciire for ennui And yon 'rr. lookiiif; dv'ill and languid." ••'Nothing would so miich delight me/' Answered Sunday with a simper, "As in Any wAy t' oblige you, Or your heavy burden lighten; "But I need not tell you, sister, H6w I mdke 't a point of c6nscience To live Always like a lady And with n6 work soil my fingers. "And even w^re I, which I Am not, Of myself inclined to labor, Grod's commAndment is explicit: 'My seventh child shall d(5 no lAbor'." "Gr6d's seventh child! why, that 's myself," said SAturdAy laying down her rubber; "WhAt a fo61 I 've be^n to work so ! Bvit in future f '11 be wiser. "H6w came yoii so long to insist on 't 'TwAs the first child wAs exempted, And make your six yoiinger sisters Work, to keep you like a lAdy? "N6w you 've let by chAnce the truth out, ift 's the seventh child is exempted — TAke the scrubber; 6n your knees down; I '11 dress fine and prAy and idle." "You had <5nce your turn," said Sunday, "Th6 seventh child once wAs exempted. And I w6rked just As you now do, i and your five elder sisters; "But you grew so proiid and saucy Hedven or edrth could not endure it, And your birthright was taken from you And bestowed upon your betters." "I remember well the robbery And the lies to justify it; And hoW; not t' exp6se the family, i put lip with 't and said nothing. "I remember too, my sisters, When they advised me t6 keep quiet, Prophesied you 'd soon grow prouder. Saucier fdr than 6ver I was. '''Let her hAve it,' one and all cried; 'Privilege was ^ver odious; Let her h4ve it, make the most of it; Come, dear Saturday, with us work.' "f obeyed; you took my title; Called yourself God's Holy S4bbath, Dressed in satin, prayed and idled, And grew every day more saucy, "More hardhearted, vain and selfish, More intolerant, supercilious, Hypocritical, overbearing, Ceremonious and religious, "Till at last the whole world hates you, Fe4rs you no less than despises, Cdlls you in plain terms imp6stor, Foul usurper of my birthright." "V6ry fine talk for my Iddy Dowager Profdni Prociil; Why! it 's not my likeness, sister, Biit your own you have been drawing; "Faithful fr6m your memory drawing, As you were while yoii reigned mistress And your flatterers low before you Bowed and kissed the h(^m of your garment. "Wh6 was 't then was 6verbe4ring? Who was 't th^n was svipercilious ? Who was 't then was vain and selfish, Ceremonious and religious? "And if n6w you 're s6mething wiser, Something m6re discreet and m6dest. Less encroaching, sanctimonious, Pharisaical dnd exclusive, "f 'm to th^nk for 't, wh6 have taught you That 'twasn't yoii your flatterers cAred for. But to have something to flatter. Any idol to bow d6wn to." Siich the Billingsgdte the sisters Flung and reflung At each other; Which aimed best and hit the hardest, Judge, for I can't, pAtient reMer. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey (Ireland), Dec. 25, 1854. Well now I 'm sure I don't know why in the world it was pvit there, Standing up in the middle of the face like the gnomon of a siindial, Very much, as one wovild say, in the way of the passers by, And exposed to heat and cold, wet and dry, all the winds that blow. Don't tell me that it was for the sake of beauty it was ever set up there. Still less that it was for utility, i. e. by way of a handle, And as to the hints I s6metimes hear that it was out of mere whim or vagary, I assure you I 'm not the man to lend an ear to insinuations of that sort. Bu-t I '11 tell you the idea that has just now flashed across my mind And which of course I hold myself at liberty to correct as I improve in knowledge. For these are improving times, as you know, and the whole world 's in progress. And the only wonder is, that with all our advancement we 're so very far behind yet. Now my idea 's neither more nor less than that it was set up where it is simply because Grod Hadn't, or couldn't at the moment find, a more convenient spot to put it in; And I 'm further of opinion that if you or I had had the placing of it, It s no better but a thousand times worse it would have been placed than now it is. For while I admit that it does indeed at first sight seem a little too far forward set, Like a camp picket or vedette upon the very fore front and edge of danger. Still there 's no denying the solidity and security of its basis, And that it rarely if ever happens it 's obliged to evacuate its position. Why, I 've seen an enemy come up to it in a towering fit of passion. And with his right hand clenched till it looked like a sledge- hammer or mason's mallet Strike it such a blow right in the face as you 'd swear must annihilate it, Or at least send its ghost down dolefully whimpering to Orcus. Nay, I 've seen its best friend and nearest earthly relative With a giant's grasp lay hold of it, and squeeze it between finger and thumb, Till it roared with downright agony as loud as a braying ass or elephant, And yet, the moment after, it seemed not a hair the worse but rather refreshed by it. But all this is scarce worth mentioning in comparison of what I Ve se^n it bear At the h^nds of that same natural friend, ally, and protector, Who twenty times a day or, if the humor happened so to take him, A hijndred times a day would in one of the dark cellars under it Explode all on a sudden so strong a detonating powder That you 'd say there never yet was iron tower or vaulted granite casemate That wouldn't have tumbled down incontinent at the very first concussion. And yet that wondrous piece of flesh and bone seemed but to take delight in it. But, setting aside these wholly minor and secondary consi- derations. What would you say of an architect who had constrticted a face With a pair of eyes staring, one on the right side and the other on the left side of it, And yet had made no manner of provision at all for the support of a pair of spectacles? So avaunt with your idle criticisms, your good-for-nothing stuff and twaddle. Such as one dozes over a-nights in the Quarterly just before one goes to bed. And let me have a pinch out of your canister, for I know it 's the genuine Lundy More care -easing even than Nepenthe, than Ambrosia more odoriferous. Dalkey Lodbe, Dalkey (Ireland), Dec. 16, 1854. On the d4y before the first day God was tired with doing nothing, And determined to rise early On the nc^xt day And do something. 86 upon the next day God rose Very early, And the light made — You must know that lintil that day God had Always lived in darkness: — "Bravo ! brAvo ! thAt 's a go6d job," Said God when his eye the light caught; "Now I think I '11 try and mAke me A convenient plAce to live in." So up6n the next day God rose At the dAwn of light, and heAven made. And from thAt day forward never WAnted a snug b6x to live in. " Well ! a little work is pleAsant," Said God, "And besides it 's iiseful; WhAt a pity I 've so 16ng sat Dumping, mumping, doing nothing!" So upon the third day God made This round bdll of land and water And with right thumb and forefinger Set it like teet6tum spinning; Spinning twirling like teetcStum, Round and rovind about, the ball went, While God clapped his hands, delighted, And called th' dngels to look at it. Who made th' angels? if you ask me, I reply: — that 's m6re than I know; For if God had, I don't doiibt but He 'd have piit them in his catalogue. Biit no matter — ■ some one made them, And they came about him flcScking, Wondering at the siidden fit of Manufacturing that had tdken him: — "it 's a pretty b^ll," they all said; "D6 pray tell us what 's the use of it; Won't you make a great many of them? We would like to see them trundling." "Wait until tomorrow," said God, ''And I think I '11 sh6w you s6mething; This is quite enough for one day. And you know I 'm biit beginning." So about noon on the fourth day, God called th' angels 411 about him. And showed them the great big ball he 'd Made to jgive light to the little one. "What!" said th' angels, "such a big ball Just to give light to a little one! Thdt 's bad m4nagement 4nd you kn6w too You had plenty of light without it," "Not quite plenty." said God snappish, "For the light I mdde the first day, Although good, was rdther scanty. Scarce enough for me to work by. "And besides how was it possible If I had not made the big ball T6 have given the little one seasons, Days and yedrs and nights and mornings? "So you see there was nothing for it But to fix the little ball steddy, And about it set the big one Topsy - turvying is you here see." "It 's the big ball we see steddy. And the little one roimd it whirling," Said the angels, by the great light Dazzled, dnd their eyebrows shading: ■ — "None of your impertinence," said God Growing more vexed every moment; "I know that as w^ll as you do, But I don't choose you should say it. "I have set the big ball steady And the little one spinning round it, But I Ve t61d you jiist the opposite And the opposite yoii must swear to." "Anything you s^y we '11 swedr to/' Said the dngels humbly b6wing; "H4ve you Anything ni6re to sh6w us? We 're so fond of exhibitions." "Yes," said God, "what wAs deficient in the lighting 6i the little ball, With this pretty mo6n I 've made up And these little twinkling stars here." "Wasn't the big ball big enough?" said With simplicity the dngels: — "Couldn't, without a miracle," said God, "Shine at 6nce on back and fr6nt side." "There you 're quite right," said the Angels, "And we think you show your wisdom in not squandering miracles on those Who beli(^ve your word without them. "Biit do t^ll us why you ve s6 far From your little ball put your little stars; One would think they didn't belong to it, Scarce one in a thousand shines on it." "To be sure I could have placed them So much nearer," said God smiling, "That the little ball would have be^n as Well lit with some millions fewer; "But I 'd like to kn(5w of what use To th' omnipotent such economy — Can't I mdke a million million stars Quite as easily as one star?" "Right again," said th' angels, "tliorc can Be* no msinner of doubt about it." "That 's all n6w," said G6d; "tomorrow Come again and ji shall more see." When the Angels c4me the next day God indeed had n6t been idle, And they saw the little ball swdrming With all kinds of living creatures. There they went in pairs, the cr.eAtures, Of all sizes, shapes and colors, Striking, hopping, leaping, climbing, CrAwling, burrowing, swimming, ilying. Squealing, singing, roaring, grunting, Barking, braying, mewing, h6wling. Chuckling, gabbling, cr6wing, qudcking. Cowing, crocking, buzzing, hissing. Such assembly there has never From that day down be^n on eArth seen; Fr6m that day down Such a concert There has never been on earth heard. For there, ramping and their maker Praising in their various fashions, Were all Grod's created species, All except the fossilized ones; For whose Absence on that great day The most likely cause assigned yet. Is that they were quite forgotten And would not go ixninvited. But let th4t be as it may be, All tb' unfossilized ones were there Striving which of them would noisiest Praise bestow upon their milker. "Well," said th' angels, wh^n they 'd looked on Silently some time and listened; "Well, you surely have a sti'4nge taste; Wh4t did you make all these queer things for?" "Come tomorrow and I '11 show you," Said God, gleeful his hands rubbing; "All you Ve yet seen 's 4 mere nothing T(5 what you shall see tomorrow." S6, when th' dngels came the next day All tiptoe with expectation. And stretched necks and eyes and ears out Towards the new world, God said to them: — "There he is, my Mst and best work; There he is, the n6ble creature; I told you you should see something; WhAt do you say now? have I word kept?" "Where, where is he?" said the Angels; "We see nothing but the little ball With its big ball, mo6n and little stars And queer, yelping, capering kickshaws." "f don't well know whdt you mean by Kickshaws," said God scarcely quite pleased, "But am6ng my creatures yonder Don't you see one nobler figure? "By his strong, round, tail-less buttocks And his Mt claws you may kn6w him Even were he not so like me That we might pass for twin brothers." "N6w we see him," said the Angels; "How is 't possible we o'erlooked him? He 's indeed your very image Only l^ss strong and wise looking." •'So I hope the mystery 's cleared up," Said Grod with much selfcomplAcence, "And you are no longer puzzled What I 've been aboiit these six days." "Even th' Almighty/' said the Angels, "May be proud of such chef-d'oeuvre. Such magnificent and crowning- Issue of a six days' labor." Here a deep sigh rent God's bosom. And a shdde came o'er God's features: — "Ah," he cried, "were ye but hdnest And no traitor stood amongst ye! "Then indeed this were a gredt work, Then indeed I were too happy; Ah ! it 's too bad, downright too bad. But I '11 — sh411 I? yes, I '11 let you; " I^et you disappoint and fret me. Let you disconcert my whole plan — Why of All my virtues should I LoavH unpractised only patience V ''There he is, my noblest, best work; TAke him, do your pleasure with him. After all perhaps I '11 find some Means to p4tch my broken saucer. "N(5w begone! don't let me see you Here again till I send for you; I 'm tired working, and intend to Rest my wedry bones tomorrow." S6 God lay late on the next day And the wh61e day 16ng did n6thing But reflect upon his ill luck And the gredt spite 6f the angels. And he said: — "Because I 've rested All this seventh day, dnd done nothing. Each seventh d4y shall b^ kept holy And a day of rest for dver." And as Gr6d said 4nd commanded S6 it is now, And still sh411 be: All hard work done 6n the seventh day, T6 the first day All respect shown. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey (Ikeland), Jan. 21, 1855. Dire Ambition lip hill toiling, Straining every n4rve and sinew, Sweating, pdnting, taking no rest, Dire Ambition, listen to me. Highest climbers get the worst falls. On the hill -top st6rms blow fiercest. Lightning oftenest strikes the summits. Dire Ambition, turn and come down. In the valley here it 's sheltered, Easy, sdfe and sure and pledsant; 6n those steep heights there 's scarce fo6ting, I grow dizzy to look At thee. Higher still thou climb'st and higher, Lendest no ear, lo6k'st not once down; Almost in the clouds I see thee, Far above the reach of my words. F^re thee w611 then — 6nly fall not — And as hippy b^ above there, If thou canst, as 1 bel(5w here in the cdlm, sequestered vdlley. Dalkey Lod&e, Dalket (Ikeland), April 4, 1855. IVY LEAF. Ivy leM, come, I will praise thee. Just because thou 'rt unpretending And hast seldom hAd the f6rtune To be praised as thou deservest. Summer's vAriegdted, g^y leaves, Frightened At th' approach of winter, Long ago have fled and left me T6 thy never- failing shelter. 6n this bledk November m6rning fn thou peepest At my window With as kindly, friendly greeting As though w^ were still in July. Yesterday I Asked the redbreast Th4t from yonder bare spray cArols: - "Where, my pretty serenAder, 6n these c61d nights flndest shelter?" "in the ivy," Answered Robin, "llnderneath your bedroom window. Nestling cozy, I care little For the bleAk nights of November." C6nquering Bdcchus, lr6m the Indies Driving in triumphal chdriot, Twined his Thyrsus, crowned his temples, With thy gre^n branch and black berries. From that ddy down t6 the present, Round the wine cup 4iid the tAnkard Wind harmoniously together Clustering grape, and ivj branches. Clearer, sweater far the h(5ney I 've each morning At my breakfast Thdn the honey the Athenians Brought from Hybla And Hymettus; Why? because all th6 long summer My' bees riot in thy blossoms, And who 6ver hedrd of ivy 6n Mount Hybla 6r Hymettus? When I 'm dead and o'er my dshes Rises the cold mArble column. Shroud it, ivy, with thy green leaves; All too Ikte the pAltry tribute. Walking from Fontaine l'Eveqce to Bas^icles, HiiNAnLT (Beloium); Nov. 12 — 13, 1854. Why paint Dedth the king of terrors? Who so quiet, c41m and peaceful? Wlio so humble? who so lovely? Wh6 a kinder friend to mdn is? Why hung round with bldck the chamber? Why those sAd looks, sighs and sobbings? Tosses on this coiich a fever? He4ves this bredst with Anxious thr6bbings ? On these cheeks there gl6ws no anger, 6n these p41e lips writhes no Anguish ; Care this brcSw no 16nger wrinkles. From these lids no te4rs are starting; Foolish mourners, for yourselves weep, Wh6 have still with Life to struggle, Life the treacherous, unrelenting. Cruel king of pains and terrors. Dalkby Lodge, Dalket (Ireland); April 2, 1855. TO * * * Ihere was a time when to our view This dull old world looked fresh and new, And you loved me and I loved you, There wAs a time. There wds a time when young and gay We fr61icked through the livelong day, And dll our wh61e year was one May, There wds a time. There wds a time we did not dream That things are other than they seem And with delusive lustre gleam, There wds a time. There was a time we had not yet LeArned to fume and cark and fret And thankless riches hardly get. There was a time. There was a time — but it is past; The child 's become a man at last. And age and death are coming fast, There was a time. Dalket Lodge, Dalket (Ibelahd); May 7, 1855. TYEANT, I '11 have my rights;" I once heard say A village cur to a neighbouring farmer's mastiff: "One hdlf that bone exact I claim as mine, For in Grod's sight all kinds of dogs are equal; He made us 411, we 're all alike his children." "Take it," replied the mdstiflf, "with that strength Equal to mine, which thdt impartial God No doubt has given thee; I impugn thy right not." Growling he said, and Cur away sneaked prudent. And hdd that night gone supperless to bed, H4d not kind Providence brought by chance that way My lady's pug with bone stolen from the larder; Which Cur, an adept now in equity. With sudden snatch to appropriate not demurring. Bore off and at the cabin door contented gnawed. The livelong evening, praising God and saying: — "EAch has his (3wn; the mastiff his, I mine; Had God intended Pug to have kept his bone There 's not a doubt he would have made him stronger." Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey (Ikeland) ; April 1, 1855. Do good to your friend and he '11 do good to you. Perhaps, and if not inconvenient to him; But if you 'd have him really like and love you You must in 411 things swe4r to his opinion. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey (Ireland); May 18, 1855. LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS. LAt the law t4ke its course," the Roman said, Sitting in judgment; and the lictors seized Forthwith the two young men, the judge's sons. And stripped them to the waist and bound and flogged. In vain turned towards the judgment- seat the youths' Wild eyes, imploring; the uplifted ax Severed first one and then the other's head. Proud to have executed Roman justice Even on his 6wn rebellious sons, the judge Unblenched descended from the judgment- seat; H6me to his desolate house returned, the sire In secret wept his disobedient children. Such were the wondrous men that made Rome Rome. Dalket Lodge, Dalkey (Ieelahd); April 12, 1855. Draw b^ck from the mirror; your image recedes, And at Idst disappears in the infinite distance; Approach; and, behold! from the depths of the mirror A still brightening image comes forward to meet you : So, sad Mem'ry's eye follows the flight of the past; So, brightening, to Hope's eye, approaches the future. Dalkey Lodoe, Dalkey (Ieelahd); April 2, 1855. MY SISTER MARY'S DOG RAP, WRITTEN THE HOUR HE DIED. O^LDOM lived dog or man more peaceful life, More free from envy, bitterness, and strife ; Seldom died dog or man more placid death, Or struggled less in yielding up the breath; SeldotQ left dog or man a friend behind More true. Rap, than thy mistress or more kind. So peaceftil I would live, so placid die. And, dying, hear the same survivor sigh. And dead, not far off in the earth be laid. Under th' kncestral elm and yew-tree shadei Dalkey Lodge, Dalket; Dec. 17, 1854. THE AUTHOR'S EPITAPH. Underneath this mouldering heap Lies some poor clay That 6nce like the6 could laugh and weep. And hdd its day. If by the world thou Art despised, A while here st4y; If pampered by the world and prized. Away ! awUy ! Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey; May 6, 1855. ONLY FULL AND TRUE REPOET OF THE CONTENTION BETWEEN NOSE AND EYES FOE THE SPECTACLES, AND THE ISSUE THEREOF. « Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose. The spectacles set them unhappily wrong; The point in dispute was, as ail the world knows. To which the said Spectacles ought to belong. So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. * In Mr. Cowper's report of this celebrated case we look in vain for his accustomed impartiality, his characteristic love of truth and justice, Not only has he garbled the pleadings by a total omission of the plea of the eyes, but even falsified the record itself by the substitution of an absurd and unjust decision of the court for the rational and equitable compromise by which the case was actually closed , and the proceedings brought to a termination satisfactory to both parties. To this, the sole dereliction of the straightforward path with which he has ever been charged, Mr. Cowper was no doubt seduced by Tiis partiality for the nose, Mr. Cowper, as it is well known , having always been accustomed to wear his spectacles „Iii behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear And your Lordship," he said, "will undoubtedly find That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear; Which amounts to possession time out of mind." Then holding the spectacles up to the court: — "Your Lordship observes they are made with a straddle As wide as the ridge of the Nose is : in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. "Again would your Lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then? "On the whole it appears, and my argument shows. With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose And the Nose was as plainly intended for them." Having thus made a case on behalf of the Nose No less valid in law than in equity strong. Tongue changed sides and with arguments weighty as blows Showed the spectacles only to Eyes could belong: — upon his nose. In order to guard my report against all tinge of a similar predilection for the eyes (a predilection of which I acknowledge I cannot wholly divest myself, the eyes in my case having always had the use of the spectacles), I have taken the precaution not to draw my account of the arguments of Counsel on behalf of the nose from the same source from which I have drawn my account of the plea of the eyes and of the final compromise, viz. the books of the Court of Uncommon Pleas , the court in which the case was tried and in which I have been so fortunate as to find a complete record of it, but to adopt Nose's arguments verbatim and literatim from the report of Nose's best friend, Mr. Cowper himself. "My Lord, spectacles being, as we all know, a pair, And Eyes a pair also, while Nose is but one. That it 's Eyes and not Nose that should spectacles wear Is as plain and as clear as at noonday the sun. "And as for the ownership Nose claimed just now On the ground of his fitting exactly the straddle. Why, my Lord, allow that, and you can't but allow That the horse owns by right both the rider and saddle." Here the court, interrupting, proposed compromise — Between next-door neighbours such strife 's a disgrace — And Nose waived his claim, on condition that Eyes Should from thenceforth let spectacles lie in their case. Dalkey Lodoe, DAr.KEY (Ibeland); Pebr. 11, 1855. "Bpicuri de grege porcum.' There 's n6thing I so much admire As a fall glass and roaring fire. Unless it be cow-heel or tripe, Or well replenished meerschaum pipe — Stdy, darling Meg, I did but jest; Of all God's gifts thou art the best. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey; Jan. 25, 1855. From his shroud the dedd man peeping Saw the mourners round him weeping, Heard such s6bs and sighs and groans Might have melted hearts of stones. Not a word the de4d man said, But the thought came into his head: To that whining blubbering pack G6d keep m^ from g6ing bAck. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey; April 3, 1S55. What beneficent J6ve was 't, or Biiddh or Osiris Or Saturn or Satan, who, not for their own good But man's use, created poor birds, beasts and fishes; And his protege, more to enrich and exalt him. Into tw6 halves divided and to the 6ne half Gave the other for servant and b6ndslave for ^ver? Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey (Ireland); April 13, 1855. TRAY. Trom my bedrooai, in my gown, Every m6rn when I come d6wn, TrAy says to me with his tail: — "Hope I see you fresh and hdle." At my breakfast when I sit Munching sl6wly bit by bit, Tray reminds me with his pAw He too has a to6th and jaw. When I take my hdt and stick, Trdy perceives the motion quick And acr6ss the pdrlour floor Scampers joyful to the do6r. When I walk along the street St6pping 6very friend I meet With: ■ — "Good morning! how do you do?" Tray's nose asks each : — "Who are yoii ? " To Belinda's when I come, Tray snuffs round and round the room, Then lies down beside my chair, Kn6ws I '11 stay a long while there. When I rise to g6 away Fr6m Belinda's, and call Tray, Tray comes slowly, knowing well I 've to s4y a 16ng farewell. Down the street toward my hall -door When I turn my fAce once more, Wh6 so joyful then as Tray? Try if you can make him stay. T6 my door got, if bell -ring Do^s not quickly some, one bring, You would pity Tray's hard cAse, Drooping tail and rueful face. Opened when the do6r at last, TrAy bolts maid and master pAst, And, ere well hung lip my hit. On the hearthrug outstretched flat Lies with muzzle on the ground, And half cl6sed eye, wAtching round, While preparatives diily mdde — Crumbcloth spread and t4ble laid — Herald ne4r approaching Thre6, Hour of weight to Tray and me ; Weighty hour to me and Tr&y, Tiirning- point of the whole ddy. Such our forenoons; woiild you kn6w If our Afternoons pass so, Worse or better; I can't say There 's much difference ■ — is there. Tray? Dalkey Lodse, Dalkey (Ireland); April 8, 1855. No more questions, good friend, no more questions, I pray; I 'd be chooser myself what to sAy or not sky ; With your 'Wh6?' 'Which?' and 'Whdt?' 'How?' 'When?' 'Wherefore?' and 'Why?' You but shut my heart closer, my t6ngue tighter ti4; Nay, you 've no one to blAme but yourself, if with lying And quibbling and shuffling I pAy back your prying. So deAl with me fairly and give quid pro 'qu6 And your own thoughts first t^U me, if my thoughts you 'd know. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey; March 30, 1855. TiS the little boy Mshing his t(5p in the court; With all his whole hedrt he 's intent on his sp6rt, And ks his top merrily spins round and round, In the w6rld where 's a happier soiil to be fodnd? I '11 go down to the court and the wh61e livelong d^y At whip -my -top there with that hdppy boy play; Give me top and lash here, and let him take who will My gr6wn man's wealth, honors, strength, wisdom, and skill. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey; May 6, 1855. As in Tibur's pleasant villa Strolled Mecenas 6nce with Hdrace, "WMt can hi the reason, p(5et/' Said Mecdnas cavalierly, "ThAt the Mjective must Always To the noim be s6 obsequious ; Follow All its whims and humors, Trot beside it like a spaniel?" "I don't kn6w, heard never reason/' Answered H6race, his head shaking. "WhAt! not know?" replied Mecenas, "I thought p6ets knew all such things." "Now I recollect," said H6race With an Arch smile, "my schoolmAster llsed to sAy that noiin was patron, Adjective, poor ddvil! poet." Walking from Zell to Simmeen, Rhenish Prussia; July 9, 1855. 1 WAS 6n the First of January edrly in the morning I paid my Love a visit, and a hdppy new year wished her; She gave me her right h4nd and said she was glad to see me — Ah! little thought I then, she was entering on her list year. 'Twas on the First of February, a cold and snowy morning, I paid my Love a visit and asked her was she quite well : — "I Ve got a little coiigh," said she, "but I d6n't think any- thing 6i it; Coughs and colds are going, and I hope I '11 soon be better." 'Twas 6n the First of March and a bitter wind was bl6wing; I paid my Love a visit, and asked her was she better: — "I 'm not much better y^t," said she, "and the cough is sticking to me. But when the weather softens I don't doubt I '11 be better." 'Twas on the First of April when a blink of sun was gleaming Between two chilly sh6wers, I paid my Love a visit; When she saw me her eye brightened and she said she 'd soon be finely, But I thought she didn't lo»^k well and I had a sad foreboding. 115 lu 'Twas on delicious MAy-day I paid my Love a visit; The sky was clear, the air was soft, the birds were gaily singing, But my Love her pallid cheek upon her hand was leaning, And I didn't ask her how she was , for I saw it but too cledrly. 'Twas on the First of leAfy June I paid my Love a visit; When she saw me from the window she waved her hand to greet me, And I entered the house joyful, thinking she was surely bettei", But when I came in near her I saw how she was wasting. On the First of warm July I paid my Love a visit; She was chilly cold and trembling, with her shawl wrapt close about her. For the fever fit was 6n her, and insidious Hectic biisy S4pping poor besieged Life's weak and tottering fortress. Up6n the First of Aiigust I paid my Love a visit; She was laid upon the sofa, and her hand was dry and burning; She bade me kindly welcome, and I sat down there beside her, But rose and came awdy straight, for she talked to me of dying- Up6n September First I paid my Love a visit; She raised her head upon the pillow and looked out on the re4pers : — "How pleasant it 's out there," said she, "and yet I 'm still growing we4ker. And perhaps" — but there she st6pped short, for she heard me sobbing; Up6n Octolier First I paid my Love a visit; Her cheeks were sunk and pile, with a red spot in the middle: — "Ah!" said she, "the winter 's neAr, for the leaves are falling, falling — But you '11 think of me in spring when you hear the black- bird whistle." Upon November First I paid my Love a visit; It was a lowering m6rning and the rain was drizzling dreAry : "It will be brighter by and by," said I, between my fingers taking Her emaciated wrist — "Yes, yes," said she, "in hedven." Upon December First when I paid my Love a visit I met, 'twas for the first time, no stretched - out hand, no greeting, For she lay there in her shroud wrapt, more lovely fair than ever. And if never more to love me, pain to suffer never. Up6n this First of January, desolate and lonely I sit here, in the churchyard, watching by my L6ve's grave; And if I weep, it 's not for her, for she 's safe from all sorrow. But for myself behind her left so desolate and Idnely. Daleet Lodoe, Dalkey, April 14, 1855. 10* IHE son 's a poor, wretched, unfortunate creature, With a n4me no less wretched: I-Would-ip-I-Could; But the father 's rich, glorious and hdppy and mighty And his terrible ndrae is I-Cocld-ip-I-Would. Dalket Lodge, Dalkey, April 12, 1855. You don't like my writings, won't reM them nor biiy them; Then d6 me the f4vor at ledst, to decry them ; Where the praise of good judges is h4rd to be hdd. The next best thing t6 it 's the blAme of the bAd. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey, April 8, 1855. "I BELIEVE it," said Faith, "though I kn6w it 's a Ut Contradiction, and breach of supreme Nature's laws, For I s4w it and hedrd it and felt it and sm^lt it, And no one was wicked enough to deceive me. And seeing and hearing and feeling and smelling Are surer than even supreme Nature's Idws. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey, April 1, 1855. Even the Lovely must die" * ■ — To be sure, Mr. poet, Even the L6vely must die; do you think we don't know it? Yet bdd as the case is — and who doubts it 's bad? — That the tSglj should not die were something more sad. Dalkey Lod&e, Dalkey, May 27, 1855. Main Force with saw, hatchet and strong rope achieved. Much sweating, the fdll of the stout- timbered cedar; But Cunniilg about the root dug unperceived. And fldt with the first breath of wind fell the cedar. Dalkey LoDQE, Dat.khy, April 2, 1855. In the height of his glory said Cesar to Cassius: — "Mankind will talk of me for ever with wonder." "To be sure, mighty Cesar," said C4ssius, "mankind will Of the^ and thy great deeds talk ever with w6nder; But the w6nder of wonders will still be that Cesar, Magndnimous Cesar, so cared to be talked of." Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey, April 1, 1855. * Aucli das Schone muss sterben. Schiller. Sleep and W^Mng 6nce a strife had: Which was m6st by Pr6Yidence fdvored; And with lAwyerlike acumen Thus their separate c4ses Argued: — "I 'm the favorite/' first said Waking, "For the wh61e wide w6rld 's for m.6 made, EArth, sun, mo6n, and All the little stars. Not to spedk of Mmp and gAs light." "Wretched Waking," said Sleep listless, "TAke thy gimcracks And my pity. Thou that must keep Always hAmmering At some fiddle fAddle n6nsense. "TAke thy gimcracks — pleasure, profit. Science, leArning — mAke much 6f them; Add if it pleAse thee lAbor, ennui, S6rrow, pain and thirst and hunger. "Here at eAse up6n this bench stretched F6r thy whole world I no strAw care. Or, if s6 be the whim tAke me, HAve it in my dreAms for nothing; "In my dreams have pleasures, riches, Wisdom, fdme, and p(5wer and knowledge. Double, triple, hundredf61d more Than e'er fell to thy lot. Waking. "I take wing and through the air fly, Or with fins glide through the wAter, Or turn patriot dud my fingers Rdddle with the blood of Cesar, "Yet no risk run; mine not thine are Hedven and edrth, time pdst and present — Good bye, Waking; what need more words? Thed thy work calls, me siesta." Scarce had Sleep the Idst word uttered, tip came Nightmare, hideous grinning. And about Sleep's neck a noose threw And begdn with main force pulling. "SAve me, sdve me," cried Sleep half choked "Wh6 's God's favorite n6w?" said Waking As he ciit the no6se and saved Sleep And drove off the grinning monster. SiBOMBEBa, Khenish Pbussia, July 11, 1855. While there 's 6ne drop in the bottle This life 's still a life of pleasure, Fiill of promise still the future; Let the Idst drop leave the bottle And the day grows dark and he4vy, There will b^ a st6rni tom6rrow. Ppeddeesheim in the PalAtinatii, July 15, 1855. If rightly on my theme I think, There are five reasons why men drink: Good wine; a friend; because I 'm dry; Or lest I should be, by and by; Or any other reason why." , Answer. If rightly on my theme I think. There 's but one reason why men drink; And that one reason is, I think — Why, just because men like to drink. Heidelbekg, July 21, 1855. nE 's deAd these long ^ges, and dll his bones mouldered, And scattered his diist to the points of the c6mpass, But we still have and will have for ever am6ng us The hedrt of the P6et emhdlmed in his vdrse. Dalkbt Lodge, Dalket, April 10, 1855. 1ELA.T I 'm much praised by men of little sense Offends me n(5t; I know it 's mere pretence, The hollow echo of what, every day, They hear men of a better judgment say. TouKNAY (BELaiuM), Nov. 16, 1854. PaGtAN, forsdke your G6ds," the Christian cries, "And w6rship mine; your Gods are dirt and lies." "Christian," replies the Pagan, "honor 's due Even to your Gods; to each his God is true." Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey, March 31, 1855. LETTER EBCEIVBD TROM A REVIEWER TO -WHOM THE AUTHOR, INTENDING- TO SEND THE MS. OP HIS SIX PHOTOaKAPHS OP THE HEROIC TIMES POR REVIEW, HAD BY MISTAKE SENT, INSTEAD OF IT, A MS. OP MILTOn's PARADISE REGAINED. With all the care and attention permitted by my multitudinous And harassing, yet never upon any account to be neglected, avocations, I have read over, verse by verse, from near about the begin- ning to the very end, The poem which, some thirteen or fourteen months ago, you did me the honor to enclose me; And as I feel for literature in general and especially for literary men A regard which I make bold to flatter myself is something more than merely professional, In returning you your work I venture to make these few hurried observations : And first, I 'm so far from being of opinion that the work 's wholly devoid of merit That I think I can discern here and there an odd half line or line in it. Which even Lord Byron himself — for since Lord Byron became popular, Reviewers' opinions concerning that truly great man have under- gone, as you know, a most remarkable change — I think I can discern, I say, here and there in your work an odd half line or odd line Which even the greatest poet of modern times need not have been ashdmed of. And the whole scope and tenor of your work, on whichever side or in whatever light I exAmine it, Whether religiously, esthetically, philosophically, morally or simply poetically, Give me great ground to hope — and I assure you I feel unfeigned satisfaction in expressing the hope — That, in process of time, and supposing your disposition amenable to advice and correction. You may by dint of study and perseverance acquire sufficient poetical skill To entitle you to a place somewhere or other among respectable English poets. And now I know I may count upon lyour good sense and candor to excuse me If I add to this, you '11 do me the justice to allow, no illiberal praise of your performance. Some few honest words of dispraise, wrung from me by the nec&sity of the case: Your style, for I will not mince the matter, seems to me very (Sften to be A little too Bombastes Furioso^ or, small things to compare with great, a little too Miltonic; Its grandiloquence not sufficiently softened down by that copious admixture of commonplace Which renders Bab Macaulay,. James Montgomery and Mrs. Hemans so delightful; Whilst on the other hand it exhibits, but too often alas! the directly opposite and ■w'orse fault Of nude and barren simplicity, absence not of adornment alone but even of decent dress. I '11 not worry you with a host of examples; to a man of your sense one 's as good as a thousand; "Ex uno disce omnes/' as Eneas said, wishing to save Dido time and trouble; The very last line of your poem , the summing up of your wh(Sle work, Where, if anywhere, there should be dignity and emphasis, something to make an impression And ring in the ear of the reader after he has laid d6wn the book And be quoted by him to his children and children's children on his deathbed. As an honored ancestor of mine, one of my predecessors in this very reviewer's chair. Is said to have died with — no, not with the concluding verse of Homer's Iliad on his lips. For Homer has by some fatality concluded his great poem much after your meagre fashion — But with the magnificent couplet on his lips, which the judicious translator substitutes for the lame Homeric ending : "Such, honors Ilium to hei- hew paid, And peaceful slept the mighty Hector's Shade." The very last line of your work, I say, the peroration of your poem, So far from presenting us, like this fine verse, with something full and round and swelling For ear and memory to takfe hold of and keep twirling about, barrel - organ - wise. That is to say when ear and memory have, as they often have, nothing bdtter to do, Hasn't even sufficient pith in it for an indifferent prose p(5riod, Exhibits such a deficiency of thew and sinew, not to say of soul and ethereal spirit, Such a woful dearth of rough stuff and raw material, not to say of finish and top dressing, That the reader cares but little either to catch a hold or keep a hold of it. And it drops from between the antennae of his disappointed expectation Pretty much in the same way as a knotless thread from be- tween a housewife's fingers. And yet when I consider how well adapted your "Home to his mother's house, private, returned" is To take off the edge of the reading appetite, and with what right good will After reading this verse one lays down the book without wishing it were longer, I can't help correcting my first judgment and saying, with a smile, io myself: "Well, after all, that finale 's less injudicious than appears at first sight" And now I have only to beg your kind excuse, for the freedom of the observations Which in my double capacity of friend of literature and literary men. And clerk of the literary market, bound to protect the public Against unsound, unwholesome or fraudulently made-up intel- lectual foodj I have felt it my duty to make on your, to me at least, very new and original work, A work which, crude and imperfect as it is and full of marks of a beginner's band, Affords to the practised critic's eye indubitable evidences of a latent power Sure to break forth as soon as the favorable opportunity presents itself And astonish the world perhaps with a second — I was going to say Don Jiian, But; as I hate hyperbole and love to be within the mark, I '11 say — with a second Thalaba or Antient Mariner or Ex- cursion ; Glorious consummation! which the kind Fates have, no doubt, in reserve for you If in the meantime you 're content to live upon hope, and don't too much economize midnight oil. [Heidelberg, July 26, 1855.] OBEY;" said Majority once to Minority; "To be sure," said Minority, "for thou 'rt the str6ngest." "Not because I the strongest am," Answered Majority, "But because I 'm the wisest, it 's thine to obey." "Right again," said Minority hiding a sly smile, "Wise men Always were numerous, fools always few." Dalket Lodoe, Dalkey, April 1, 1855. Beware how you attempt the world to cheat, L^st yourself suffer by your own deceit: You cheat the w6rld; back from the world to you Retiims your lie and you believe it true. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey, April 9, 1855. oEE bef6re thee," ^aid Hope, "where the pleasant light y6nder, More bright every moment, disperses the darkness." But Fe4r cried: — "Bewdre! for the light but looks brighter Because, on all sides round, the ddrkness so deepens." Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey, April 1, 1855. With pAllid Hp quivering and fiery eye flashing, Wrath rushed on his victim and brandished the knife; But Pity with noiseless step stole up behind him And wrenched the blade from him and smiled in his face. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey, April 1, 1855. Past Time 's dedd and gone, and buried, and the requiem sung 6ver her; FuTtJEE Time 's not born yet, and wh6 knows how ligly she may be? So give me a kiss, sweet PEisENT, and let 's hippy be together — One, two, three, and begin again • — thoii 'rt the girl for my money. Heidelberg, July 25, 1855. HAMLET. 1 HE king of Denmark 's murdered by his brother ; The brother dons his crown , marries his widow ; N6 one suspects the deed, till at deep midnight The ghost; in suit complete of burnished steel, From purgatory comes and fires sulphureous To tell his son, young Hamlet, the whole story. And rouse his youthful blood to similar deed. The prince falls into a mighty, towering passion. And hates mankind, and wishes he was dead, And damns his uncjle, and will surely kill him, Jfot at his prayers, for not to heaven he 'd send him, Biit in the midst of some unfinished lust Fall on him and direct to hell despatch him. S16w on the hot resolve follows the deed Limping, for wisely thus the youth bethinks him : — "How, if my wicked uncle kill me first, Me ere I him? where then were my revenge. The credit and the glory of this deed, The duty to my parent and my parent's Unhappy ghost, my piety toward heaven, The example to the world, and to my mother The lash of scorpions, wielded by her son? For I 've no son to whom if I were murdered M"^ ghost might come to hie him on to murder My murderer; and if I had such son. How can I know he would believe my ghost? Which gives me room to think: what if this ghost I saw last night were not my father's ghost. But some malignant spirit sent from hell With lies to tempt me to my uncle's murder. So ^charily, good Hamlet ; softly tread ; Test the ghost's tdle, and take care of thy head. And so most carefal cautious of his head Hamlet goes mad, for kings suspect not madmen, And many a wise and many a mad thing says, Wise at this moment, raving mad the next; And, lighting by good fortune on a pack Of strolling players, sets about to teach them With such consummate skill their proper art That you are tempted to accuse dame Nature Of having by some blunder made a king's son. When she had taken in hand to make a player. Playwriter, next, and manager become, The versatile youth into his players' play Intercalates the scene of his father's murder. The uncle blenches; the ghost's credit 's stamped; But, lack a day! the unlucky birdcatcher, Jiist as he thinks he has but to bag his bird, Falls into his own springe and is bagged himself. And off to England a la Bellerophon packed; But not before in one of his feigned iits He has killed his truelove's, sweet Ophelia's, father. Taking him for the king, and her chaste ear. His own Ophelia's innocent, chaste ear. With ribaldry polluted and audacious. Counterfeit madness, till he drives her mad. And in a pond, poor soul! she drowns herself. Singing lorn ditties, and one true heart adds To the long count of true hearts cracked by love. Meantime not idly in his cabin chewing The tedium of his voyage sits young Hamlet, 1.1 1 11 But, seizing occupation pat at hand, The seal breaks of his uncle's missives — reads, And to the deep consigns, his own death -warrant, And with a re4dy, fair, and clerklike hand, F6r he 's a clerk too, writes out the death-warrant Of his escort, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern ; Forges the king's sign manual, and affixes The royal seal; and, having scarce taken time To palm upon his escort the forged packet, Jumps into a boarding pirate and is carried Solus to Denmark back; bidding Grod speed And safe return home, to the two brave youths. The interesting Danish Siamese twins. Good Rosencrantz and gentle Gruildenstern, Who, holding on their voyage, and delivering To England's majesty the fraternal missives, By England's majesty have their heads instanter And without further ceremony chopped off — Hurr4h for England! m6re power t6 thee, Hamlet! The first act of our story with a ghost, A grisly ghost, began; come with me now, Kind reader, that is if thou 'rt not afraid. Into a churchyard where good Christians lie Waiting the final trump to rise to glory. Here in his splenetic mood arrives young Hamlet, And standing on the edge of the deep grave That 's waiting for his injured, sweet Ophelia, Begins to crack jokes with the base grave-diggers. Make puns, say witty things, and moralize At the expanse of frail humanity's relics, Till the corpse comes; then down into the grave Ledps in the desperation of his sorrow. And, cellared on the coffin by the brother. Blusters and tugs and spouts and wrestles hard Till the crowd come between and part the mourners. Adjourn we now to royal palace -hall, And gay assembly met to adjudge the prize To him who best knows how to wield the smill sword, Ophelia's brother, practised well in France, Or our dear nephew, all - accomplished Hamlet. Look sharp now to thyself, thou that wouldst kill With thine own hand thine uncle ; for there 's poison Upon thine adversary's rapier point; And if, victorious, thou escape the point, A poisoned chalice stands by to refresh thee. But stay — what 's this already? in the name Of heaven, and of the ghost and thy revenge, Thy wisdom and thy mumming and thy madness. The bloody arras, sweet Ophelia's pond, And the two heads of thy once College friends, Lopped off instead of thine by courteous England, What 's this I see already? not thine uncle's But thine own blood upon a poisoned rapier And streaming down thy doublet: m^ke haste, Hamlet; And there thy mother drinks death from the cup For thee no longer necessary, who Hast but five minutes' life — make haste, and wrest Out of thy murderer's hand the poisoned point. And turn it on him ; bravo ! now thine uncle ; Bravo again! 'twere pity thou 'dst forgot him. And now die happy; thou 'st at last achieved This most magnanimous, meritorious deed; And though, plain truth to tell, a little slowly, And somewhat in the manner of a thing A while forgotten then remembered sudden, 163 11* Yet with so little risk to thine own bones, Being thyself already in those clutches Which from all further earthly harm protect, I own thou 'st put me into a sort of puzzle Which crown first to award thee; of hot valor, Or of hot valor's base antipodes, Sneaking discretion; I '11 e'en home and sleep on 't. Meanwhile , inexplicable , unintelligible Compound of incongTuities , Good night. Dai.key Lodge, Dalicey (Ireland); April 28, 1S55. ROMEO AND JULIET. JjEAVE, courteous, handsome, clever, gallant Eomeo With all his heart and soul loves Rosaline; She is the p61estar of his longing eyes, The haven of his hopes and aspirations. His dream by day, his vision all the night. The book in which he reads perpetually The loveliness and excellence of woman. Being fond of pleasure this same Romeo goes A -masking to the house of Capulet, Where for a Montague to be seen is death. So hot the feud between the two old races, And falls slapdash o'er head and ears in love With fourteen-year-old Juliet, the host's daughter, Who with like passionate suddenness on him Doats on the instant, seeing behind his visor The properest, fairest, and discreetest man. Not in VercSna onlyj but tlie world, And kicks against the chosen of her parents, The County Paris, will have none but Romeo, And Romeo must and will have; dutiful child! And for fourteen of most miraculous wisdom! And nothing headstrong! only will be married Off hand to the acquaintance of five minutes, The enemy of her house, the pledged to another; Modest withal and chaste! though a proficient In filthy language, and right roundly rating, r Even on her wedding day, the slow approach Of closely curtained, "love-performing" night. But sour is still near sweet, and rain near sunshine. Sorrow near pleasure, near the rose a thorn. And out of this same merry masking comes Not love alone but fierce and deadly quarrel : Tybalt, the fair one's cousin, spies behind The reveller's mask not Cupid's laughing eyes But the curled moustache of a Montague, And, taking fire, comes to a brawling match And rapier thrusts with devil-may-care Mercutio, And makes short work of him, and in requital Is himself mAde short w(5rk of by hot Romeo, Who forthwith must to banishment in Mantua, Far from Verona, far from love and Juliet. Meantime the parents, ignorant that their child Is theirs no longer, and that among Christ's Ostensible ministers there has one been found To affix Christ's signet to the stolen compact, Pr^ss upon Romeo's wedded wife Count Paris, And fix tomoiTOw for the wedding day; Miss pouts, and hangs her head: is quite too young, Too innocent, too tender yet for marriage, And will not till she 's forced; would rather die, Take poison, stab herself, do anything A high souled girl of fourteen dare to do The truth to hide and the first crime to double. Is there no help, no help in the wide world For maid so hardly used — for wedded wife? Aye to be sure there is, while there 's a priest; That same friar Laurence knows an herb of power To impdrt for two days death's cold, pallid semblance Trackless upon the third day disappearing Before returning health and bloom and vigor. This herb drinks Juliet, and the wretched parents And County Paris on his wedding day Greet not a bride and daughter but a corpse. Which the next night with tears and sad array They lay in the tomb of all the Capulets. The next night after, with sweet smelling flowers To deck his bride's untimely grave, comes Paris And there falls foul of — whom? the ghost of Tybalt? N6-, but the banished Montague that made Tybalt a ghost — the banished Romeo prowling At midnight round the tomb of Capulet — And draws upon his enemy and falls And dying begs a grave beside his bride. Now if thou 'dst know what business in Verona, What business at the tomb of Capulet, Had Romeo, when he should have been a-bed And snug asleep in banishment at Mantua, Please ask friar Laurence didn't he send f6r him To come and from her temporary tomb, Her parents and Verona and Count Paris, Bear in his arms away his wedded wife. "Aye, that I did," the holy friar will answer, "And had agreed with wrenching iron there Myself to meet him, and a second time Consign the Capulet's child to the Montague." And true the answer of the holy friar, But not comes Eomeo therefore, not to snatch A living Capulet out of Capulet's tomb, But to entomb there a dead Montague, NAmely himself; for which be these two reasons: First the miscarriage of the friar's true message. To come post haste to unbury living Juliet; And next the carriage by eye-witnesses Of the friar's lie, that on her wedding night Juliet was laid a stiffened corpse beside Her cousin Tybalt in the Capulets' tomb. Therefore comes Romeo, for in the name of love And sober sense, and piety toward heaven, And fortitude and magnanimity And common prudence, how could Romeo live, Juliet being dead, his five minutes' acquaintance. And, counting-in the two days she is dead. Now nearly three whole days his wedded wife? How could he live? and if he killed himself In Mantua there, how was the world to know 'Twas all for Juliet's love he killed himself? So Romeo, being in earnest, buys real poison. And being in haste moreover, hires post horses. And that same night, first having as we have seen Despatched poor Paris, dies Felo de se And kisses with his dying lips dead Juliet, Wh6, the next instant opening such bright eyes As make the whole tomb look like a lighthouse lantern. And seeing, upon one side, her dead husband. And on the other, her dead bridegroom lying. And not far off her cousin dead and rotting, Thinks 'twere not far amiss she too should die Were 't but for the sake of such good company, And being besides in so convenient place, And draws out of the sheath her husband's dagger And sheathes it in her bosom, there to rust, And dies outright. The watch seize friar Laurence And let him go again; and there 's an end; And more 's the pity, seeing there was never Of perfect truelove a more perfect model. Never a story of more pleasant woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey; May 4, 1855. THE TEMPEST. TAE in a desert island in the midst Of the Mediterranean lived, long years ago, A wrinkled, withered hag, called Sycorax, With Caliban her son, an uncouth savage And worshipper, like her, of Setebos, Whoever Setebos was. The old witch died And Caliban reigned alone in the desert islahd, When one day in a leaky boat arrived. With his bo6ks of magic and his infant daughter, Milan's Duke, Prospero, expelled his duchy By his usurping brother, Antonio, And turned adrift; black day for Caliban, Who, as a matter of course, is robbed of all. And civilized, and taixght a new religion, And made to fetch and carry for a master And for his master's daughter, sweet; Miranda, Now growing to a woman, laiid' at last, ! ■ A woman grown, who of , no other men Knows in the world but Caliban and her father, Though I '11 not swear ^he has never h6ard of spirits. Her father being a sorcerer, and dealing Largely with creatures of that, Natural Order, , Darkening the sun by their means,: raising storms. And doing with equal ease all possible' things ' And all impossible. Especially One Ariel was his favorite, a blythe spirit Whom, when he came to the island first, he found Pegged in a cloven pine — "A spirit pegged!" , Aye, to be sure, for Sycorax was a witch. And witches can as easily peg spirits Into cloven pines, as tapsters can peg spiles ' into beer bdrrels — and there the spirit was howling. And writhing to get out, now twelve whole winters. When Prospero came, and, the dead witch defying, Widened the pine-tree rift and let him^ out. ' ' ' Aiiother twelve years and we find the spirit On board the king of Naples' ship in the (3ffing, Frightening the king of Naples and his friend And protege, the usurping Duke Antonio, Now playing Jack o' lantern on the mast. Now running up and down the shrouds like wildfire. Now firing squibs and crackers in the cabin, Biit in the 16ng run quite goodnaturedly Saving them all from foundering in the tempest He had brought upon them by his master's orders, And sound and dry into his master's hand Delivering both the usurper and the king. And the king's drunken jester, drunken butler, And handsome son; of whom Miranda chooses. After a game at chess, the last for husband, The wedding ceremonial being however Deferred, for want of a priest, till safe return Of the high contracting Powers to Christendom With the drunken jester and the drunken butler. And wicked brother Antonio freely pardoned Without his even so much as asking pardon Or promising amendment or saying think ye; And so breaks off, a little abrupt, the story. Leaving us to surmise how they got home, And wondering often whether they took with them, Or there behind them left, poor Caliban; And as for Ariel who can't well refuse, Hdving supplied the storm that brought it thither, To find fair weather for the ship returning. He 's to have ledve, this last turn served, to go And shift for himself and keep clear for the future Of witches, cloven pines, and Dukes of Milan. L6rd, what delight the enactment of this story By fiill grown men and women gives to children! And how I laughed, when I was seven years old, At all the queer things staggering Trinculo said, And hid my head whesn Caliban crawled out, And peeped again when it was Ariel flying. And wondered why 'twas not at blindman's buff But chess the king's son and Duke's daughter played. And hated the bad duke, and loved the good one Wilii his enchanter's wand and long, striped coatT Aids, those happy days of seven years old For m^ are fled, and with them fled, for me, Tom Thumb and Cinderella and The Tempest! Dalket Lodge, Dalkey; May 15, 1855. KING HENRY THE EIGHTH. IHE king of England meets the king of France And sMkes Hands with him in a field near Ardres; — The Duke of Buckingham 's accused of treason, Tried and condemned, and sets off in a barge For Tower Hill, there to have his head chopped off; ■ Katharine of Arragon, poor virtuous queen ! Has her trial tod, and, being repudiated. Dies brokenhedrted in Kimbolton castle; — Proud Wolsey blooms and ripens in the sun Of royal favor till a cloud between Him and the siin comes, and he droops and fades And shrivels up, and begs a little earth And leive to lay his bones in Leicester Abbey, And dies at eight p. m. and goes to — heaven; — The king sees Anna Boleyn at a ball And takes her out to dance, and kisses her. And gives her Katharine's wdrm place in his bed; — - The yoiing queen's coronation is a sight Angels look d6wn upon from heaven with envy: The prayers, the benedictions, holy chrism. The ball and sceptre and the bird of peace. The happy crowds of gaping, wondering faces. The anthem and the full choir and the organ, The battle -ax -men and the halberdiers. The golden circlet placed by England's primate. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Upon the fairest of the six fair brows Whose happy fortune 'tis, one after th' other. To please for a while the taste of scrupulous flenry; And, not least gazed at of the brave assembly, The heretic doctor, placed for his heresy At the head of all the bishops and archbishops, The same good man who, . give him time enough, Shall, in the sight of some of those there gazing, Abominate and abjure his heresy; ' ' ' Nay, far more curious and' delectable sight! Abominate and abjure his abjuration; — A lying-in comes next, with cake and caudle; — And thereupon, a christening,' where the same Half- heretic doctor gossips, and foretelling The blessings kind heaven has in store for the baby. Ignores, with true prophetic skill, the blessings The same kind heaven has in store for the b4by's mother And the wise prophet's self. So ends the story,. And what do you think it 's called? the unfortunate duke? Or good archbishop? or bad cardinal? Or meeting of their highnesses at Ardres ? Or Katharine's divorce? or Anna Boleyn's Wooing, or lying-in, or coronation? '. Or happy Christening of Elizabeth ? N6; but it 's called, after the peg on which The nine odd scraps are hung, King Henry the Eighth. Dalkey Lodge, Dalkey (Ireland); May 18, 1S55. nERE I go up and down, hop, top, hop, And from morning till night never stop Picking seeds up and filling my crop; And though I 'm but a sparrow, and thoii A mighty great mAn, I allow, I would not change with thee, somehow." "For a thing of thy size," answered,!, "Great 's thy wisdom, I '11 never deny, So to live on the sAme way I '11 try, As I lived years before thou wast hatched, Or the barn, thou wast hatched in, was thatched; Pert sparrow, I hope thou art matched." "Very well,'' said the spdrrow; "let be; Hadst thou not looked uncivil at m6, I 'd no word said uncivil to thee. For we 're brothers alike, after all. Though you men, have the fashion to c411 i i. Yourselves gredt and us, po6'r sparrows! sm^ll-,'! Heidf.lbeeg, July 31 , 1855. AUF WIEDERSEH'N! AuF Wiederseh'n ! politer word I doubt not there might be, Could one but of politeness think When taking leave of thee. Auf Wiederseh'n ! then, dearest girl. Since from thee I must part — Auf Wiederseh'n ! not from the lips But from the sad, sad heart. Heidelberg, July 28, 1855. TO HOFEATH SUPFLE AND HIS DAUGHTER EMILIA; ON OUK LEAVING CARLSBWHE, AUG. 16, 185 5. Adieu ! kind friends ; and, by these idle rhymes Or by the hour reminded, think sometimes Of the two strangers, widely wandering pair. With whom ye pleased your evening walks to share, Gladdening their one short week in still Carlsruhe, But sdddening — ah, how saddening! their adieu. TO PROFESSOR GRATZ LIBEAEIAN OF THE GRAND DUCAL LIBEAEY, CARLSRUHE. ON MY LEAVmO CAKLSBUHE , AUG. 16, 1855. Xaeewell! and happy live till thou and I Meet once again beneath a summer sky; Should that day never come, then happy die — Even while I say Farewell! the minutes fly. August the Twenty Third, in Tubingen, I paid a visit to the poet Uhland, Who with some formal courtesy received me, And next day at my lodgings left a card. More wouldst thou kn6w of Uhland? pAy him a visit And, if thou 'rt able, make more out of him Than that he is a little, ugly, wiry. Wrinkled, hard-visaged man of eight and sixty. Who, jilted of his Muse, sits all day long In his study, moping over Lord knows what. And little recks of Mends, and less of strangers, And bathes of summer mornings in the Neckar. Walking from Beilstein to Weinsberg (Wurttembekg) ; Sept. 3, lS5.i. TO DOCTOR EMANUEL TAFEL, PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY AND LIBRARIAN IN THE UNIVERSITY OF TiJBINGEN. ON MY LEAVING TUBINGEN , AUG. 31, 185 5. Lbaening and leisure, and a gentle mind To works of charity of itself inclined, Visions * of Good and Beautiful and True Pliding the re41, sad, suffering world from view, Are bounteous heaven's munificent gifts to thee — Enjoy them, and of all men happiest be. OO there 's an end!" said I, and from the grave Turned homeward, sorrowful, my lingering step. And down beside the cradle sat and wept. Then, having wept my fill, went out and labored And with eased heart returned, and eat and slept, And rose next day and labored, wept and slept. And rose again next day and did the same, And every d4y the same did, till the last; And now, the last day come at long and last, I weep because it 's come and ends my weeping. Stuitgakt, Sept. ], 1S55. * Doctor Tafel is a, zealous disciple of Swedenborg's, and has written much and amiably and eloquently, but as it appears to me, without any \'is consequentiae , in support of that religionist's doctrines. 176 LUCEM PEROSUS. JNaked, and for the plunge prepared, I stood Up6n the deep pool's steep and silent brink, And, having thought a brief farewell to home. Kindred and friends^ hopes, joys, and pains, and fears, Leaped like a frog into the yielding water. Which with a welcome gurgling filled mine ears, And mouth and nose and eyes, and stopped my breath. And I becdme as though I had n6t been born; And men set lip a stone to mark the spot. And carved a death's -head and cross bones up6n it. And the reproachful words Fblo de se; And would have killed me ten times, if they coiild, Rather than 6nce have let me kill myself. Pity their creed 's not tru6, else I 'd come back Anights, and scare them as they lie abed Thinking of ghosts and hell -fires and the damned. And suicides in deep, black, dismal pools. And heaven's revenge, and their own naughtiness Which from their God even in their prayers they hide. In vain. Let be; their creed 's their punishment. Walking from Themak to Sdhl, in the Thdbikgian Fobest; Oct. 3, 1855. 12 Why so sh-y of death, sweet infent? De4tli 's but 6ne long, lasting liiish-6, And the grave a dfeep, d«ep crAdle Hiing with bMck cloth and white linen. "I 'm not tired yet 6f my corals, C4ndy, c4kes, and milk and honey; In the grdve MammA won't pet me. Nor PapA bring me new plAy-things." J6yous stripling, why so shiin death? Death 's no cribbed, soiir preceptor, W4kes thee not of eirly mornings ; In the grdve 's one long vacation. "fn the grave 's one long vacation. But no dice, no b6wls, no tennis; DeAth toasts n6ver in Champagne wine Lizzy's 16ve or Bella's beauty." Man of ripe years, why so dredd death? In the gr4ve there 's n6 more trouble, De4th keeps watch and lets not 6nter Pain or 16ss or fear or sorrow. "in the grAve there is no troiible, But there 's Also n6 enjoyment, De4th keeps wAtch and Mts not enter Pleasure, profit, hope or honor." Feeble, tottering, we4ry 61d man. Why from Death's kind h^lp recoil so'i* See! he spreads a s(Sft couch fdr thee; Cast thy st4ff away and lie down. "GlAdly would I De4th's kind h^nd take, And upon his soft couch stretch me. Did no demons round it hover. Did no nightmares its sleep trouble." Demons, nightmares haiint not thAt bed, Sound its sleep, sound, sound and dreamless; Lay thine heM down on the pillow. Close thine eyes now, 4nd — all 's over. Walking from SnHL, in the Thuringiau Forest, to Ohedruff; Oct. 4, 1855. Acute, observant, witty and profound, Goethe, the w6rldly wise, dwells in my brain; But to my heart of hearts, with all thy faults, I take thee, gentle, noble-minded Schiller, And with thee moiirn, not mock, humanity. Walking from Ludwigsbubg to Beilstein (Wubttembekg) ; Sept. 2, 1855. J 2* [ell me, Quintus/' 6nce said Virgil; As he wAlked in Rome with Horace, "What think'st thoii of my En^is? Who can judge so well as Quintus?" "For the c6mpliment I thdnk thee, Though I 6wn I scarce deserve it, Clever Piiblius," Answered Horace; "Thou shalt hear my plain opinion: "Thine Eneis is a gredt work. Worthy match of Grrecia's greatest, Eoiind the B.6man H6mer's temples Binds a wreAth of bay perennial. "Wider th^n of E6man EAgle Shdll the flight be 6f Eome's Epos, Viewed with wonder by unb6rn tribes Of all climates tongues and c61ors." "With the future,'' Answered Virgil, "Let it be as Jove and F4te will; ft 's enough for me, my Quintus, T6 have pleased the Roman Pindar." Ohrdkuff, near Gotha; Oct. 4, 1855. Ask me not whAt her ndme was — it's small mAtter ^x^,^^i, ^ utime — but ask me whAt herself was, And my whole being, bursting into tedrs. Answers: "She wds" — good God! and is't she mas? Weinsbeeg (WtiKTTEMBEKG) ; Sept. 4, 1855. OHE n^ver in her whole life wrote one stanza, She kn^w no Gredk, no Ldtin, scarcely French, She pl4yed not, danced not, s4ng not, yet when Death His arms about her threw, to tear her fr6m me, I would have ransomed her, not Orpheus-like With mine own song alone, but with all song, Music and dance, philosophy and learning Were ever, or to be were, in the world. GoTHA, Oct. 12, 1855. IHEY s4y I 'm of a Propaganda school And would have 411 men measure by my rule. And they say tru^, perhaps; but then the rule, I 'd hdve them measure by, is: There 's no rvl/b. WuKZBUEO (Bavahia), Sept. 29, 1855. INTO two classes 411 men I divide. The oppressed on this, the oppressors on that, side; Let them change names and places as they will, Oppressors and oppressed I find them still. Walking from Suhl to Obeenhof in the Thtjringian Fokest; Oct. 4, 1855. IN FEAULEIN JULIE FINCKH'S ALBUM. HEILBKONN , SEPT. 19, 1855. Pleasant it is to journey on and on. Observing still new lands and peoples strange, But far more pleasant on a spot to light Which with so friendly courtesy receives us. That we stop short and say: — "Why one step further?" PROVIDENCE versus CHANCE AND FATE. IHE ship struck on a rock by accident, And sdnk, and all on board were lost but two, Whom in the longboat of th' ill fated vessel. Almost by miracle, a kind Providence saved. Weinsbekg (Wurttembekg) , Sept. 3, 1855. No wonder, reader, that from all I say Thou tiirn'st with cl6sed eyes and closed ears away, For in this point at least all men agree. That each will teacher, none will learner, be. Weinsbeeg (WiJBTTEMBERo) , Sept. 13, 1855. INSCRIPTION FOR A LUCIFEE-MATCH BOX. (I) Prometheus' fedt to thine was but a patch, Grl6rious inventor of the lucifer- match! Thou steal'st not fire, but mdk'st it fresh and new; And, what even Hedven forg6t, hid'st it from view. Weinsberg (Wuettembbrg) , Sept. 20, 1855. On my bed D6wn my head Laid like lead, C16tlies tucked in Under chin, I begin Not to sleep, But to weep And watch keep, Wondering why I don't die Instantly, And down low, Sad and slow, To Styx go. There to moan Faithless Joan Away flown. Flown away, Would not stay, Lack a day! Well, let bd! Plain I see 'Twould kill me So to lie '16ne, and sigh Heigh ho! heigh! Rosalind 's fair and kind; Wasn't I blind To prefer Joan to her? I aver I would not Give one groat, Stir one jot, Joan to save From the grave; Beauty's slave Though Fate me Doomed to be, Still — d' ye see? Sh6 left me Full and free Liberty This one's noose T6 refuse; Thdt one's choose. 86 revolved And resolved. The case solved, Dri6d mine eyes, Stilled my sighs, ITp I rise At gray day, And my way, Fresh and gay. Take toward kind Rosalind. With stout mind, Shown by nip 6{ my lip, And firm grip Of my stick, f pass quick The hayrick, Where, close by Joan's house, I Used to lie On the ground. Watching round Sight or sound 6f Joan nigh. "Bye! good bye! Joan," said I; "As thou me, i leave thee, T<3 live free," And a look, Turning, took Of the brook And grass plat And flower knot And thatched cot. The fresh sun. His day's run Just begun. Clad with bright Ruddy light Tower and height, And the green Leaves between Glancing sheen, Every ray Seemed to say: — "Please, Sir, stay." "Stay! not I; Bye! good bye! Joan," cried I, And, "Heigh ho!" Sighed, and slow Turned to go. WAs't ech6 Answered: — "h6!" i don't know. But, turned round At the sound, There I found, By my side, fn her pride, Joan, my bride. Wasn't I blind Rosalind, Though she 's kind. So to her To prefer, And aver i would not Grive one groat, Stir one jot, Joan to save From the grave? Beauty's slave When Fate me Doomed to be, Mistress she 'ssigned me none But mine own Peerless Joan. TuBiNGtEN, Aug. 28, 1855. POET. IHESE verses redd, and, having read, tell me If n6t as good as Horace's they be. CKITIC. As go(5d as Horace's ! my dear Sir, no ; Horace wrote his two thousand years ago. POET. Had mine been writ two thousand years ago, And Horace's today, hadst still said No? CRITIC. No, by no means; then thou hadst been the rule, And i had learned thee off by heart at school. POET. Alas, alas, the tyranny of Fate! Better not b6rn at All, than born so late. CBITIC. Patience; thou 'rt time enough; each has his dale. Some earlier, later some, but all must wait. Two thousand years hence thou perhaps shalt be Greater than Horace — Why so stare at me? POET. I 'm thinking if two thousand years work so, What will four thousand do; I 'd like to know. CRITIC. Undo all that two thousand years had done, And le4ve thee as thou 'rt now, by all unknown; 6r, if thou 'rt Fortune's special favorite, raise And moot the question in some score of ways : How many poets were there of thy name. And to thy verses which has the best claim. Or hark in with some future Wolfius' cry That thoii and thy existence were a lie, F6r to credte such noble works required Some twenty bards at least, and all inspired. POET. Then there 's no way to be for ever known. And consecrate the world to come mine own. CRITIC. And if there were, what were 't but vanity When 6nce the coffin lid has closed on thee? POET. So be it. Come, Miise, let 's not throw pearls away. Or pipe for those who won't the piper pay. We '11 please our noble selves; I thee, thou me; And for itself let shift posterity. Walking from Weinseekg in Wukttemberq to Wdbzbukb in Bavakia; Sept. 25 — 29, 1855. "Immer am widrigsten bleibt der Schein dea Monds und der Sterne, Nicht ein Korulein, tei Gott! weckt ihr unpraktischer Strahl." JUSTINOS Kbbhek. ImS wdrld 's so fast progressing I do n6t despair to see yet Three things, that now run all to waste, turned t6 important uses: There 's first of all the singing birds, it go6s to my heart to hedr them Straining their little throdts and lungs to n6 conceivable piirpose ; Te4ch them to sing a regular tune, and soldiers could march t6 it, And cost of fife and drum be spared as w611 's of fifer and drummer. Then there 's the moon- and star-light bright, that, ^11 the livelong night through. On hill and vale and sea and plain Heaven s6 profusely squilnders, I 'd like to know why it might not be in reservoirs collected. And used in manufactories at h41f the cost of gas-light. But wind 's the thing that 's wasted most, though wind 's more worth than jewels, And 4t the State's expense should be, by f6rcing pump and bellows. In c6pious streams, to ^very house, supplied all day and night long. To keep it clear from dust and smoke and cholera and fc^ver; And every man should pa;y a fine that 's of the crime convicted, Of wasting wind in fo61ish talk or blowing the church (5rgan, But women's mouths should still be free, and wedthercocks and windmills, And ships of every size and rig, and members of both Houses. If God 's so good my life to spare -until I see these changes, I '11 di^ content, not doubting but things will go on improving Until at last the wh61e wide world 's exactly as it should be. Weinseero CW&rttembekg) , Sept. 9, 1855. The coachman drives, the h6rses draw, the carriage carries Dives, Who sits inside and lolls at ease, secTire from wind and wedther; But Dives' nights are restless, he has no appetite for dinner: — "Discharge your coachman, Dives, sell your horses and your carriage. And 6n your two legs trudge it, under every wind and wedther. And, crede mi experto, as a t6p you '11 sleep all night sound, And hardly wait for ended Grace, to f^ll upon your dinner.'' Weinsbekg (Wukttemberg) , Sept. 7, 1855. WOULDST thou convince the doubting world thou 'rt truly And from thine heart repentant thou 'st not married. Marry 5 repentance is best proved by penance. Heidelbeks, August 1, 1855. JHERE dre two sisters; 6ne with bright, Gray, laughing eyes, full of delight. And outstretched hdnd and warm embrace. And j 6y- irradiated face, And step alert, and such sweet voice As mdkes the hearer's heart rejoice. N(5 company is to my mind In which I don't this sister find. Never in this w6rld was seen Maiden 6f more opposite mien Than th' other sister: s6bs and sighs. Drooping lids and tearful eyes, And he4vy footstep, lingering slow. Unwilling, yet prepared, to go. And handkerchief white -waving still, And prayers to Heaven to avert all ill. Never long, be it where it may, Whdn I meet this maid I stay, But right-about face, and away. * * * Come they call the cheerful maid. Fare *** the melancholy jade; Both in one house live and attend The coming and the parting friend. One 6pens, and one shuts, the door; Thou know'st them both — Need I say more? GoTHA, Oct. 11, 1855. "Et grato rcmeat securior ictu." In Rome's old days of glory, when a citizen thought fit A well deserving sldve, of free grdce, to mAnumit, He cAlled the varlet to him, and, bidding him steady stdnd, A smdrt slap on the cheek dealt him with 6pen hAnd, And said: — "Thy freedom take and with it my last bl6w; Much go6d may they both d6 thee ; there — thou art fre6 to go." That sight I never saw; but I Ve seen as curious sight When it pleased a s6vereign prince to mdke a belted knight; For he called the fellow t6 him, and bdde him d6wn to kneel. And slapped him on the shoulder with the fldt side 6f his steel, And said: — "Get lip. Sir knight, and about thy business g6, And take with thee for remembrance my last and parting bl6w." And lip the gdllant knight got fr(5m his bonded knee With the blow upon his shoulders, the pink of chivalry; For a prince is honor's fountain, only source of dignity. And his blow chivalrous mdkes, as the old Roman's bl6w made free. And I 'm sorry [ wasn't by, when, defying All belief, A British prince a knight made out of a loin of beef: — "Get lip. Sir loin," he said, with a Mt slap of his knife, And worthier knight made never the good prince in his life. GoTHA, Octob. 14, 1855. 13 MUSINANDO. POET. thoii who all things here bel6w understandest, From whim Heaven hides nothing, who seest into Chdos, Far Limbo, dim Purgat'ry, Tartarus deep. Who delightest thy friends to instruct and enlighten, Who never forgettest and mak'st no mistakes, Have I leave, in the State's name, Muse, to put t(S thee Some few questions statistic concerning thyself? MUSE. 1 'm no friend of statistics — revived Inquisitions — Th' old serpent crept back in the guise of a 14mb ; But no matter, the Stdte has a right to command me ; Proceed with thy business and let me be going. POET. First of all, with a view to identification. The Stdte asks thy ndme. MUSE. Asks my ndme! let me think — Euterpe, Melpomene, Erato, Clio, Terpsichore, Polymnia, Urania, Thalia, A^de, Calliope, Melite, Mneme — Choose which thou lik'st b^st — one 's as go6d as an6ther — Perhaps n6ne quite correct, but I inswer to dll. POET. That 's the first point disposed of. Now, whAt 's thy religion? MUSE. Like the Stdte's, it depends upon time, place and fdshion; Long P4gan, then Christian; Mah(5mmedan ndver. Never Mormon or Jewish, though with time 'traay be either. POET. That 's the second point settled. Now, wh6re wert thou b6rn? MUSE. In Be6tia my fo6s say, my fridnds say in Hedven; My own memory though 16ng doesn't go quite so fir. POET. Then thou 'rt 61d? MUSE. Why perhdps — I don't know — I 'm not sure — Can't one hAve a good memory withoiit being 6ld? Must the Stdte know a Iddy's age just to an hour? No; I '11 not be cross - questioned — I 've n^ver been used to it — And thou too, Mr. Poet, to mike thyself pdrty! Whither 's gallantry, chivalry, coiirtesy fl^d? It 's the iron Age come back — Et tu. Brute, tii! Fare thee well ; happy live ; serve the State ; keep progressing Like the blind grinding horse that thinks going round 's progress — POET. For G6d's sake. Muse, listen — , MUSE. Farewell! we are tw6. POET, She 's g6ne — I '11 go ifter — but wh^re shall I find her? Whither turn to look for her? her domicile wh^re? Fool ! that might'st to that question have hid her own Answer Hadst thou dedlt but a little more gingerly with her And n(5t touched her dge till thou 'dst ledrned her ab5de — As it stdnds in the schedule: Ab6de — Callino — Age — Wise schMule! well, h^lp there was n^ver for spilled milk; So pdtience, as Maro says, "Et vosmet r^bus Servdte sec^ndis ; " i. e. in plain prose : The dear girl when she c(5mes next perhaps may be s6fter — 1»5 13* I 11 depend on thee, Mdro, for vrhd ever better Than Maro the maid knew, or questioned her cl6ser, Or g6t her to tell more, or — worse kept her secrets? Not quite fair ■ — not quite fair — thou 'st been sciirvily tre4ted, Poor Miise, I must own; and if thou but com'st back And talk'st kindly with me, and this once forgiv'st me, I swedr by Parnassus I 11 never to mdrtal One syllable utter of all that has happened. Or ask thee from henceforth one personal question; Let the State, if it will, do its own shabby business. Or s6me one, more fitted than I, find, to do it; I 11 be ndne of its pimp — See! I tedr up the schedule — There she comes! welcome bdck! that 's my own darling girl! So byegones are byegones, and once more we 're fridnds. Caklsruhe, Nov. 26, 1855. THE ASTRONOMERS. It chanced as I pdssed by my barn one fine evening — Few barns have so splendid a vi^w to the W^st ■ — I saw, side by side on the hdlf-door perched cozy. My cock and my hen and a six -weeks -old chicken. As I sto6d looking dt them, and they at the siinset That was painting with gold me and th^m and the barn. Says the hen in reply to a question the chicken Had jiist put: — "I 11 tell you, my dear, all about it: "The sun sdts in the W6st; then benedth the round eArth Groes across to the EAst and there rises again; His rising makes d4y and his setting makes night, And s6 he goes circling for ever and ever." "No, Mammd/' said the chicken, "just he4r me explain it: The sun when he s^ts stops a sh6rt while to rest him, Then turns, and goes straight back the s&me way he cAme, But you can't see him g6ing the night is so d4rk. And s6 he goes p6sting, like mail coach or steam train, To and fro on the sdme line for 6\ev and ever." "You 're both fo61s," said the cock, "not one inch the sun budges. But the earth on itself keeps round turning incessant. Like a little boy's top or an old housewife's spindle; The side that turns t6wards the sun thinks the sun rises, The side that turns from the sun thinks the sun sets, And so it goes twirling in sunshine and shadow, And twirls us all with it for 6ver and ever." As he spoke the sun set and they br6ke up the council, And lip to their ro6sts flew, one dfter an6ther. And I in to te4 went, and told the whole story. But no one believed me — all said I was j6king. And 6nly the more laughed the more I. protested. Till at last I took hiifF and went up to roost too ; And ray cock from that ddy forth they cdlled Gralileo, My chickens the Conclave, my old hen the Pope. Walking from Hebkenbeeo to Calw (WiJBTTEMBEKe) , Nov. 3, 1855. WELL to get through this world there 's one receipt: Kindly the Bitter tdke, cautious the Sweet. GoTHA, Oct. 11, 1855. INSCRIPTION FOR A LUCIFER MATCH BOX. .(11) Who can say what the consequence had been, Subtle inventor of the Lucifer match, Had Hedven but taken care in box like thine To hide from every prying eye its fire! Perhaps Prometheus had not yet been sent To Caucasus ; . Cranmer's i-ight hand and left Not expiated contradictory crimes, Nor with Joan's dshes Rouen's stones been smutted; Ephesian Dian's temple still had stood; Swine, kine, and pretty lambs died natural deaths. And thoii and I our stomachs' cravings stilled With innocent, bloodless cucumber and salad. But Hedven cares more to punish than prevent: Prometheus rued in Caucasus' ice his theft; Dian was shorn of her Ephesian glory; Witches and saints and heretics were sublimed; And butchers, bakers, cooks, tobacco smokers. Artillery, gas, and ste4m o'erran the world. Weihsberg (Wubttembekg) , Sept. 22, 1855. Clever people are disagreeable, always taking the advan- tage of you ; Stupid people are disagreeable, you never can knock anything into their heads; Idle people are disagreeable, you must be continually amusing them; Busy people are disagreeable, never at leisure to attend to you; Extravagant people are disagreeable, always wanting to borrow of you ; Saving people are disagreeable, won't lay out a penny on you; Obliging people are disagreeable, always putting you under a c6mpliment ; Rude people are disagreeable, never stop rubbing you against the grain; Religious people are disagreeable, always boring you with points of faith; Irreligious people are disagreeable, no better than Turks and heathens ; Learned people are disagreeable, don't go by the rules of common sense ; Unlearned people are disagreeable, never can tell you what you don't already know; Fashionable people are disagreeable, mere frivolity and emp- tiness ; Vulgar people are disagreeable, don't know how to behdve themselves ; Wicked people are disagreeable, you 're never safe in their company ; But no people are so disagreeable as your truly good and worthy people — Slop-committee water-gruel, without a spice of wine or nutmeg, Mawzy mutton overboiled, without pepper, salt, or mustard. Walking from Tubingen to HEKEENBERa (Wurxtembekg), Nov. 2, 1855. Right for you 's wrong for me. If by different rules we Right and Wrong chance to measure; Good for me 's bad for yoii. If we don't the same view. Both, of pain take and pleasure. Caelsruhe, Nov. 11, 1855. oTOP! stay! let 's consider!" cried Irresolution, And hung back till the bo^t drifted out of his redch; But During leaped in and laid hold of the rudder. And stedred himself safe to the opposite bdnk. Weinsbekg CWubttemberg) , Sept. 3, 1855. Summer 's g6ne — fled away with his lilies and roses, Long mornings and evenings, and deep glowing noon; But lament him not thou, for see yonder where Autumn, Crowned with corn ear and vine branch, approaches to greet thee. Autumn 's gone — fled awdy with his vine branch and corn ear, . And has left not one poppy in ill the bare field ; But lament him not thoii, for see y6nder where Winter To the snug house and joys of the fireside invites thee. Winter 's gone — to the bledk, frozen North has retreated; The fireside 's deserted, the snug corner empty; But lament thou not therefore, but out to the green bank Where Spring 's strewing violets, and list to the thi'ostle. Spring 's gone — and his violets are choked on the green bank. The throstle's song 's silent, the thorn 's no more white; But lament thou not therefore, for see where with 16ng days And wreaths of fresh r(3ses young Summer comes back. Walking from Poppenhausen to Untehpleichpeld (Bavaria), Oct. 20, 1855. MARBACH. 1 LOVE thee, Mdrbach, in the sun there lying, Vine clAd, upon the Neckar's peaceful bank, And loved thee ere I saw thee or thy name heard, Thee that gav'st birth beneath yon humble roof To the loftiest minded of Germdnia's poets. I love thy church too with its perpendicular Roof of red tiles and gay, enamelled steeple. That, from across the way, looks down upon The cradle of thy nursling; and, as here I lie at edse stretched in thy walnut shade. On this bright, sunny day of late October, And listen to the murmur of thy Neckar, Blending mel6dious with thy vintage song. Think how a hundred years ago those sounds Fell on th' awakening ear of infant Schiller, And sigh and to myself say: Roll on, Neckar, Another hundred years, and from thy banks To Anna Liffey's banks perhaps shall come Some one acquainted with my song , and ask . "Was h6re his ci-adle?" and being answered "Yes," Shall 41so ask to see where lie my bones. Maebach (Wusttemberg) , Oct. 26, 1855. Over hill and plain and vAlley Onward as I travel aimless, Often, toward the cl6se of evening, T6 my secret self I thus say: — "Yonder see the sdme sun setting Nearly where he set last evening, Yonder, grown a little larger, See the sAme moon silent rising. "Thou too 'rt grown one whole day older Than thou wast at this hour last night, But thou 'rt n6t grown one day wiser, And still less grown (5ne day better. ' "What though Titus, what though Cdto Had in thy case moiirned a ddy lost, Hedrt, rejoice, and count each hour won That no woiind inflicts in passing." Walking from GiebelstAdt in Bavaeia to Mehgentheim in Wukttembekg, Oct. 22, 1855. ^03 She. IELL me not how much thou 16v'st me, Love by w6rds was never measured, But look kindly dnd I '11 soon know Without words how much thou lov'st me. Let me see thine eye grow brighter At my coming and thy lid droop If I biit talk of departing And I '11 kn6w how miich thou lov'st me. When thou singest, when thou playest Sing and play those airs alone which Thoii hast he^rd me sky I like best, And I '11 know how much thou lov'st me. W41k no roads but those which I walk. Choose no flowers but those which I choose, HAve no friends but th6se whom I have, And I '11 kn6w how miich thou lov'st me. Love me dnd thou need'st not tell it, Love that 's t61d 's alreMy less love ; L6ve me and thou cAnst not hide it, L6ve me And I cAn't but know it. II. He. f 1 'LL not tell thee how I 16ve thee, L6ve by w6rds was ndver measured, But look kt me thoii, and t^ll me D6st thou not see how I lore thee — D6st thou not mine eye see brighten At thy coming, And my lid droop If thou but talk'st 6f departing — I '11 not tell thee h6w I love thee. I no songs sing, f no airs play, Biit those s6ngs and airs thou lik'st best, When thou 'rt Absent I am tuneless — f 11 not tell thee h(5w I love thee. I no roAds walk which thou wAlk'st not, Cho6se no fl6wers but th6se thou cho6sest, Hdve no friends but those whom thoii hast i '11 not t^ll thee h6w I 16ve thee. H(5w I 16ve thee I '11 not tell thee. Love that 's t61d 's already l^ss love; H6w I 16ve thee I cann6t hide. Ere I kndw it mys61f thou kn^w'st it. Tubingen, Oct. 28, 1855. 20S ANNIVERSARY OF SCHILLER'S BIRTHDAY. STUTTGABT, NOV. 10, 18 55. Ihis day is Schiller's birthday; there 's rejoicing In Stuttgart from the highest to the lowest; All Wiirttemberg rejoices, king and court, LAic and priest; the squdre before Old Pi,lace Is odorous of flowers strown round his statue; Children his n4me lisp, and the very bells That cdll on Sundays to the house of prayer Are this day Eloquent with the ndme of Schiller. Silence, vile sounds! false flowers, grow pale and wither! Hiish, children! let no tongue pronounce his name, Th' expatriated fugitive's, whose bones Sanctify Weimar's earth, whom ye disowned. And from among ye sent to seek a poor. Hard earned subsistence in a foreign land. Because he would not have his free thoughts scissored, And from another cog what he should say. He has his turn now and disowns thee, Stuttgart, Dis6wns thee, SuAbia; bids ye keep your honors. Useless to him, reproachful to yourselves; He wds yours; y^ despised him, would not hdve him; In vain ye claim him now — he is the world's. And yet ye did no more than other Stuttgarts And Wiirttembergs have done to other Schillers, No m6re than, from all time, the seized of power H4ve done, and t6 all time will do, to those Who dare to touch or even so much as point at The incoherent riibbish, silt and offal. Which underlie the lowest foundation stone ' I Of 411 power, and may any day give way And slip from underneath, and down falls power Amid the loiid hurrahs of those who take The ruins to erect with them a like Proud, towering structure on like dunghill basis Permanent perhaps a while, but sure at last To rot and stink and ooze and slip away From underneath, and down, as old tower fell, Falls new tower headlong, amid like hurrahs. Curses, and thinks to God, and hymns of triumph. Thirty nine birthdays Marbach's son had counted, Ere far lerne from my mother's womb Received me first, and to his fate had bowed. And yielded up, resigned, his painful breath, And his eyes closed upon the sweet daylight And his own radiant fame, as my seventh year By the hand to6k me, and, beside the lap Of Watts and BArbauld placing, bade me listen For the first time to sweeter sound than lark's Or throstle's song, the numbers of the poet. Then other ye4rs came and to other laps Led me successive, and mine ear drew in Edger the various lore, and I grew on To be a man, and in the busy world Mixed with the busiest, and toiled hard for bread, And for vile gold , alas ! and rank and honor, But never at my busiest did I quite Forget my seventh year, or not now and then At eArly morn, late eve, or deep midnight, Retired and 411 al6ne, entreat to hear Numbers melodious — Goldsmith's, Scott's or Pope's, Spenser's or Shakespeare's, or divinest Milton's. Late late, and almost last, fell on mine ear His earnest tones whose agitated heart In Weimar's grave from my seventh year lay mouldering; Late, but not too late, cAme those earnest tones, Nor with a livelier Weimar voice unblended, Nor dissonant with Maro's long loved strain, T' adjure me from the world and consecrate me For ever after solely to the Muse; Whose I have been since then, and whose to be I would cease never while my lips have power To utter Maro's, Milton's, Schiller's name. [Cahlsbuhe, Nov. 20, 1855.] Out of the grAve I took for love thy body, My b^st bel6ved! and bvirned it to a cinder; Forgive me, that for 16ve I treated thee, As a bigot pope fo,r hatred tredted Wicliffe. Caklskuhe, Nov. 17, 1855. Go t<5, that think'st of Time as (5f a thing Outside, and independant of, thyself; Thyself ai't Time, runn'st through thy various phases — Am, Was, Have been. Shall be — and com'st to an end. Caelseuhe, Nov. 6, 1855. * See DIKGE FOR THE XIH. DEO. MDCCOLU. in My BoOK. 208 ADVICE. Unless thy friend is wise advise him n6t, For n6 man tdkes advice unless he 's wise; Unless thy friend 's unwise advise him not, For only the unwise require advice; And if thy friend 's unwise enough to need, And wise enough to take, advice, advise him Only in cAse thou 'st wise advice to give, And for thy wise advice no thinks expectest. Caelskuhe, Dec. 12, 1855. TO JUSTINUS KEENER, THE SUABIAN POET. Corporeal darkness failed to quench the ray Of vision intellectual in the soul Of Milton, Homer, or Tiresias old. Or chill the warm pulsations of thy heart, Tender^ imaginative, pensive Kerner. * Ah, what a song had -thine been, liMst thou pitched it More to the subject's, less to the monarch's ear! Wjeihsbebg (Wurttembeeg) , Sept. 9, 1855. * Kerner is 69 years of age, and, owing to a cataract on either eye, can scarcely see either to read or write. 209 14 As in the printed volume every piece^ So in the mighty universe itself Every existence, lies between two blanks. Weinsberg (Wuiittemberg) , Sept. 20, 1855. DIE WEIBERTREUE.* Verzeihe, Weinsberg! schon sind deine Triimmer, Und lieblich griin im Sommer ist dein Berg, Doch schoner noch ist mir der Weiber Treue, Die mitten auch in Winterkalte grlin. Weinsberg (Wurttemberg) , Sept. 4, 1855. * The ruins of the castle of Weinsberg, on a beautiful vine - planted hill immediately outside the town, owe the name by which they are at present known, viz. Die Weibertreue, to the following legend, or, it may be, true history. In the wars between the Welfs and Hohenstauffens in the year 1140, the Hohenstauffens besieged the Welfs in the castle of Weinsberg. The Welfs, reduced to extremities, surrendered at discretion, requiring only that their women should have permission to leave the castle, taking with them as much of their most valuable possessions as they could carry on their backs. The condition having been agreed to, the women walked out, carrying the men on their backs, and thus — for they were chivalrously allowed to pass through the lines unmolested — saved the lives of the garrison and earned for the scene of the exploit the title of Die Weibertreue. Biirger has a poem, not a very good one, on the subject. RECHTS steht der Aberglaube, Alles glaubend; Der Skepticism, der gar Nichts glaubt, steht links; Inmitten schlagen sich der Glaub'gen" Schaaren — Ich scbaue zu und freu' mich des Spektakels. Weinsberg (Wurttembekg) , Sept. 14, 1855. Der Aberglaub'ge glaubt zu viel, Der Skeptiker zu wenig, Drum schliess' ich mich den Glaub'gen an, Wann diese alle einig. Weinsbeeo (Wubttembeeq) , Sept. 14, 1855. MUTTER. WARUM, mein Kind, sehn'st du dich so nach Oben? KIND. Auf Weiteres wird Alles hier verschoben; Es giebt, Grottlob! kein "Weiteres dort oben. GiEBELSTADT, near Wotzbokg, Sept. 29, 1855. 14* TUBINGEN. Between the Neckar- and the Ammer-Thal, On the dividing hill, lies Tubingen, Dirtiest of cities ; on each side , a marsh. Here I beheld the Suabian Alma Mater Sitting in filth ; and of the poet Uhland M6re than the outside strive in vain to know; And in Duke ijlrich's castle oft at tea With philanthropic, Swedenborgian Tafel Friendly discussed the spirit- seeer's lore; And on the Spitzberg botanized with Sigwartj And in th' Old College Natural - History Hall P6red with numbed fingers over petrified Pre -Adamite Conchylia, Ichthyosauri, And foot- tracks, in the sand, of birds and beasts. Lords of this world ere it was made for man; And on the Oesterberg with Vischer strolling Talked of the Beautiful as if our walk ' Had be6n along th' Ilissus, not the Neckar, And dll too late bethought me that if his, How mtich more my, esthetic soup required To have been well thinned ere served up to the ptiblic. Ye who in distant lands have heard the fame Of Tubingen, the protestant, the learned — Of Tiibingen, the nursery of Melanchthon — Of Tiibingeaa that saw ita scrupulous despot Protest against a pope's sale of a pardouj And, at the same time, brmg into the market, And to his pe6ple weigh against haxd cash. That which is lawful merchandize as little As is God's grAce — a license to be free — Ye that in distant lands have heard this fame, Provide yourselves with smelling salts, I advise ye. Ere ye come hither; put on respirators. Green goggles and strong boots ; and when ye come, Don't lodge where I lodged, in the Golden Lamb, Beside the Eathhaus in the Market Place, Whose breakneck stairs and in-swagged floors still •show, Beneath the last two centuries' dirt, the footmarks Of Criisius' scholars crowding, after lecture. To eat, drink, rAnt, and break more heads than Priscian's; Here lodge not, wArnedj but to the Traube go, Open your piirse - strings wide and live genteel; And on your way to Neckar bridge ye may, I think, without offence at Uhland's door Look, if so curious, but not knock or ring; And should some chAnce throw Fichte's son across ye, H6 is the m4n to answer ye the question Why sans of wise men are so often — wise ; And Tdfel 's at your service, should ye need aught, And rich the library and well conducted; And the few paintings in New College Hall May please the n5t fastidious; and be sure Ye see the 16ng rows of Professors' portraits And 6ver hapless Frischlin's drop a tear, And blush that ye are men; and take a turn Among the canes in the Botanic Garden; And in the Reading Room inquire the news; And st4y not 16ng, remembering health is precious; I staid ten ddys — too long — then northwest turned Up th' Ammer-Tlidl toward Calw my wandering step, And snuffed a purer air, and waved adieu To Ulrich's Castle, Rathhaus, Colleges, Oesterberg, Spitzberg, hospitable Tafel, Th' outside of Uhland's door, and Tubingen. Walking from Calw to Liebenzell (Wukttembekg) , Nov. 3, 1855. In the name of God we bind thee to this stake, In the name of God heap fagots up about thee, In the nAme of God set fire to them and biirn thee Alive and crying loud to heaven for succor, And thus prove t6 the world the truthfulness Of our own creed and how it mollifies And fills with charity the human heart, And that thy creed 's as blasphemous as false, Th' invention of the Devil, and by God Permitted to his enemies and those Who have no milk of kindness in their breasts." Such words heard Hiiss and Latimer and Ridley, Jerome of Prague and Cranmer and Socinus, And such words, reader, thou shouldst hear tomorrow, Hadst thou but courage to stand up against The ddminant creed, and were that creed less safe, A trifle 16ss safe, less securely seized Of its h<5nors, p6wers, immiinities, and wealth. Walking from Liebenzell ( Wurttembebg ) to Lanueksteisbach near Carlskuhe, Nov. 4, 1855. CASSANDRA. Ungeateful/' said Phoebus, "That scornest, repellest, Th' embr4ce of Apollo, The kiss of a G6d ! Be it so — I 'm content — But thou go'st not unpunished, And Hedven 's not less mighty To curse than to bless. "Disdainful, begone! And that no one for ever From henceforth may credit One word thy mouth litters, I condemn thee, Cassandra, To speak always truth. Beg6ne! and as long as Thou livest, remember Thy crime and mine ire! Proud m6rtal, thou 'rt doomed." Cablsbuhe, Dec. 12, 1855. What 's the reason, Prometheus," onee said Epimetheus As he put his hand t6 to assist the man-mdker, "That when into water I thr6w these two souls here The little one sinks while the big one goes floating?" "I 've jiist given the big one a, double proportion Of vanity's light, airy gas," said Prometheus ; "Specifical lightness, you kn6w, makes things float." "Yes, I kndw to be sure, Prom/' replied Epimetheus, "But may I ask why you have given to the two souls This sdme airy gas in so different prop6rtions ? " "The big one 's a great man's soul," answered Prometheus, "The little one belongs to an 6very day chiirl." "Is the gas good or bad, minus, pliis, or indifferent?" "Bad; and just because b4d, given in double prop6rtion To the gredt soul to bring it down to the juste milieu." "Why mAke the soul gre4t, first, and th6n fine it d6wn? Were 't not simpler to mdke it juste milieu at once?" "Can't Always be d6ne, Ep; the wheel turns out sometimes, In spite of my best care, one greater one meaner; And I 'm fdrced, that I mayn't have stepchildren and children. To tdke off or add, patch with minus or plus. Now for minus I find nothing handier and patter, And that edsier amalgamates with the perfections. Than this weightless, elastic, intangible gds, Which possesses moreover the singular virtue That, no matter how much I pump in, no one ever Cries "stop!" or complains that I 've given him too much; And, more wonderful still, it 's no matter how b^dly-, How hdlf-made, a chiirl may drop out of the wheel, The first whiff of this g^s at once mAkes him content, Makes him certain I Ve never put out of my hdnds A more finished, more faultless, more elegant creAture; Well pleased with himself, he 's well pleased with his mdker, I 'm praised, and he 's h4ppy,. and 411 goes on right. Cut 6ff, or but stint, the supply of this gds.. And my wheel 's at a stand, or we 're in insurr6ction." "Thou tell'st wonders; canst with a small sample oblige me Of the mdgical stuff to try on my dumb creatures ? " "Thou shalt not have one ounce — what a world we 'd have of it Were both men and beasts vaan ! No, upon the great landmarks Thou must not lay a finger; beasts must still remain beasts, Grods be Gods and men men; and without the stuff thou Hast with thy children less care and trouble, believe me, Than I, even with all its best help, have with mine." No more said Prometheus but on with his work went. And to his beasts, thoughtful, returned Epimetheus. CAKiiSKUHK, Dec. 18, 1855. INSCRUTABLE justice and mercy and wisdom! Unabashed in thy face looks the apple, the sinner; The innocent pe4r droops its. he4d, bears the shame. Caklsruhe, Dec. 28, 1855. Whither in such huny, Mountain streamlet, tell me, Down the hill -side rushest? "To the mill thou seest there Yonder in the vdlley; Hast thou Any message?" Only tell Lisetta That thou saVst me coming — Go ! make hdste ! Grod bless thee ! Caelsruhe, Dec. 25, 1855. TO JUSTINUS KEENER, THE SUABIAN POET, ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIKTHD-AY. As h6, who, travelling westward, sees with joy The splendors of the evening sun reflected Even from the c61d clouds of the distant east, So happy he, who, from his seventieth year Back- looking, sees the morning of his days Refulgent with the brightness of his evening. Weinsbeeo (Wdbttemberg), Sept. 18, 1855. What 's tUs? a c6ffined c6rpse? no, rither say An old, worn oiit clock in its lacquered cl6ckcase, The main spring broken, motionless the hands, The dial inexpressive, clapper silent And n^ver m6re to signalize the sad Or joyful hour's arrival or departure. Walking from Giebelstadt in Bataeia to Mebgentheim in Wubttemberg, Oct. 22, 1855. HE. The cause I 'd fain kn6w Why thou 'rt always so sl(5w When thou 'rt c6ming to me; My fe^t leave behind The speed of the wind. When I 'm g6ing to thed. SHE. Nay nay, it 's not s6; It 's thoii that art slow When thou 'rt coming to me, I 'm arrived even before I have l^ft my own do6r, When I 'm g<3ing to thee. Cahlsbuhe, Dec. 12, 1855. BAWSINT MALKIN. It happened oace upon .a time as J^nay Dobbs was milking Bawsint Malkin in the c6whouse, aoad no manner of harm was thinking, Bawsint M41kin gave a sudden rent as if some Spirit possessed her. And kicking with her hind foot spilt the milk about the cowhouse. Now the kick came most unluckily just &t the very m6ment The pail was nearly fdll and Malkin's udder nearly empty, So it 's n6 great wonder Jenny Dobbs was n6t exactly quite pleased, And let Bawsint Malkin know it with a thump on her hind quiirter And s6me such words as "Wicked beast" and "bad drop always in ye." Now Jenny's cow had sense enough and thus she answered routing. And would have said in Jenny's speech had Jenny Dobbs been Balaam : — "Keep off your hands; the milk was mine, I hdd the right to spill it; It 's you are wicked, you that have the drop of bad blood in you, Who kill my calf and drink my milk, and tie me by the he^d here, And wait but till my udder 's dry to sell me to the butcher." So Bawsint Malkin's routing meant and Jenny for her pailful Of spilt milk had a lesson got, had she but understood it. Walking from Gommersdokf to Brbttach (Wi'iittembekg), Oct. 23 — 24, 1855. rilS master dead, poor Snap with troubled eye Looks earnest in my face and asks me: Why? "Ask me not, Sn4p ; thou know'st as much as I." Weinsberg (Wukttemeekg) , Sept. 7, 1S55. GrOETHE, thou sAy'st a poem was never go6d Unless 'twas written 6ji some pdt occasion — Agreed: thy poems are legion; for how many. Say, on a p<6et's faith, hadst pAt occasion? Walking from Bkettach to Weinsbekg (Wijbttembekg) , Oct. 24, 1855. TO A POET ABOUT TO WEITE IN A LADT'S NKW ALBUM. What ! spoil the lAdy's album with thine ink. The beautiful, new Album 1 Sir, just think: Those vellum pages so superbly bound Unsullied as they stand are worth a Pound, Filled with the riffraff of the poet's thought They 're well sold at an auction for a groat. Carlseuhe, Dec. 3, 1855. CESAR AND CASSIUS. liLL me, Julius" — once said C^ssius As he walked in Rome with C^sar, Chdtting lip on various t6pics, And they both as y^t were yoimg men — "Thori 'rt a wise lad, and I 'm less shy To enquire of thee than Cdto — Whither, when it leaves the body, Think'st thou, Julius, does the soul go?" "Soiil go, Caius?" answered Cesar, "Soul go without limbs or body? Soul have voluntary motion Without m6ving apparatus?" "Well, perhaps I 've used too string word. And what goes must be corporeal. But it feels, the soiil feels, Julius, After it has left the body?" "To be sure; feels without senses, Sees without eyes, hedrs without ears. Smells without nose, tdstes without tongue - Whdt s come 6ver thee, good Caius?" "i had better have asked Cato, Thou 'rt so hard up6n me, Julius, But thou 'It not deny the soul knows After it has left the body." "Knows without brain, mean'st thou Caius? Knows without nerves or sens6riuni? Kn6ws, though knowing 's but impression, Or deduction from impression?" "Well, I care not, s6 thou grAnt'st me Wh4t I think thou 'It grant me, Julius, Th4t the soul survives the body. Lives on in a world bey6nd this." "Lives, thou mean'st, although it hdsn't one Property to life belonging. Though it doesn't move, though it doesn't know. Though it doesn't feel, though it — doesn't live! "i 'm content, and wish thee 411 joy, Caius , of the rich reversion ; i '11 take this world, thoii the next take; What think'st 6f tlie bargain, Caius?" Of the bargain what thought Cassius, If his grdve smile showed not th4t day, fn the Ciiria, long years after 6n the Ides of Mdrch , his ste^l showed. Carlsruhe, Nov. 11, 1S55. INSCRIPTION FOR A LUCIFEE MATCH BOX. (in) rEOirfiTHEus' thdft in these dry chips lies hid: Wouldst thou convinced be, rub one on the lid. Weihsbekg (WtiBTTEMBEEo) , Sept. 22, 1855. Othello says: Thy purse is trash; Trust in thy go6d name, n6t thy cash. But I say: Thy good name 's but trash If in thy purse there is no cdsh. GiEBELSTADT near WnKZEURO, Oct. 21, 1855. 00 many m&ps, guides, signposts point the way T<5 the next world, I scarce can go astray This side the frontier; but, the barrier past, And firm foot s^t on the strange soil at last, 1 'm in a fix, whither to turn, what do, So inexperienced I, all round so new — Oh for some trusty Murray in my hand, Some R^d Book in, not t6, the unknown land! GoTHA, Oct. 12, 1855. As I walked by the hedge Of my (5wn Truelove's garden. An hoiir before sunset One fine summer evening, And thought of my Love, I sdw through the hedge. Where the hazel was thinnest, Something white in the arbour, And stood still and listened,' And wished 'twere my Love. Nothing stirred but my heart; I drew nearer, still listening, And nearer and nearer, And h41f through the h^dge pressed. And s4w 'twas my Love. The long, streaming golden rays Lit up the arbour. And painted more rosy More damask than ever The cheek of my Love, As there without bonnet. Her head on her arm laid, Her Arm on the tdble, In the rustic chair sitting Slept Liddy, my Love. I could see her breast heAving, Alm6st hear her breathing; In her Mp lay the nosegay Which early that morning I had s^nt to my Love. How it happened I scArce know Or what 'twas that hAppened, But, in one minute After, I found myself steAling Away from my Love ; Back steAling on tiptoe, As noiseless as shAdow, Or fly that had jixst sipped And flew away light from The lips of my L6ve. I might have staid 16nger, I might have pressed hArder, I might have more noise made, She had still not awAkened, Sly Liddy, my Love ! Caelsruhe, Dec. 9, 1855. Q'UIVIS AND QUILIBET. QUIVIS. QuiLiBJiiT ! Quilibet ! That so li(5norest Schiller, So Virgil ad.6rest, Quilibet! tell me why Thou 'rt so mighty unlike both. QUILIBET. Ask Horace why wasn't he The ditto of Virgil ; Ask Goethe why w4s he The 6pposite of Schiller; Ask the Needle why isn't it The P61e which it points to; Ask DAmon why hasn't he The features of Phillis; And th^n come and Ask me Why I on the pipes play And leave horn and trumpet To Virgil and Schiller. Caedsrdhe, Dec. 13, 1855. rLEASURE lives not one instant — expires in the birth; The r6se which thou 'st just plucked, see! is it not br6ken? Caklsrche, Dec. 18, 1855. J 5' "Give us beauty — we care not for strength — Messieurs p6ets and painters and sculptors." Fair and softly, good friends, know ye n6t That without strength there never was beauty? There va&j without beauty be strength. And I need not of Polypheme tell ye; But strength 's the substrdtum of beauty. And Ap611o 's as str6ng as he 's handsome. "But to Venus, weak Venus, what say'st thou?" Again, my good friends, fair and softly; See where blooming, strong, hedlthy and wellmade. Up the garden walk, bounding, comes Ndnny. Caelskdhe, Dec. 25, 1855. Every thing tells on crime; the prince that kissed The miller's maid was through the village hissed. For his black cloth the gentleman betrayed; And in the palace lackeys at his back Tittered to see the white upon the black, And whispered: — "Pretty is the miller's maid." Carlsruhe, Dec. 25, 1855. A QUEER FELLOW. Iheeb was 6nce a queer fellow Who, 411 his life 16ng, Walked, stood, danced, sat or lay On the top of his grdve; He ploughed it and ho^d it And dug it and sowed it And reaped it and ni6wed it, And gathered his harvest And threshed it and eat it And brewed it and dr4nk it. And merrily lived. And merrily lived On the top of his grave. And his son did the s4me, And his son's son the sdme, And his s6ns' sons for ever, They All did the sAme, And, as long as they lived, Walked, stood, ddnced, sat or lay On the top of their gr4ve. And ploughed it and hoed it And diig it and sowed it And reaped it and mowed it, And gathered their harvest And threshed it and eat it And brewed it and drank it, And merrily lived, And merrily lived On the top of their grave. Carlshuhe, Dec. 7, 1855. The siin shines on me 411 the dAy, The moon and stars the livelong night; How 16ng, hardhearted! miist I pray For 6ne blink of those eyes so bright? Carlsruhe, Dec. 7, 1855. lO William, half in jest and half in earnest Said Rose, one day: — "On which side lies the heart?" "For others I can't sAy, Rose," answered William, "But my heart 's always on the side next thee.'' "But when I 'm far away — far from thee, William — On which side th6n beats thy deserted heart?" — Said Rose arch smiling — "that I 'd fain know, William." "That question," replied William, "none can answer So well as Rose herself, who never leaves me But she takes with her too this foolish heart." Carlsri'iif, Dec. 15, 1855. Man 's a hdmmer, thou s4y'st, made to hammer hard nature Into All sorts of tampers, shapes, sizes and fashions — May be so; but, for my part, I think he 's an 4nvil, And ndture a h4mmer that ke^ps battering 6n him; If you 4sk, for what purpose? I 6wn I don't kn6w. Caklseuhe, Dec. 11, 1855. Shadow 'b never f4r from siinshine. Night is n^ver far from dAy, Pain treads in the steps of pleasure, N^ver is the whole year May. Sunshine 's n^ver f4r from shadow, Ddy is n^ver fdr from night, Pain is followed still by pleasure, Sn6w makes not the wh61e year white. M6g's perpetual sighing tires me, Meg's eternal smile 's as bM; Give me M611 who 's Always changing, N6t long merry, not long sAd. Caklskuhe, Deo. 16, 1SJ>5. JARVIE TIME. Jarvib Time ! Jarvie Time ! Tliou who all this long mdrning So crawl'dst at a snail's pace — Whom I couldn't get for prAyers Or for love or for money To shake thy reins brisker Or crack thy lash louder Or whip thy nags smarter — What 's come 6ver thee now? Jarvie Time ! Jarvie Time ! What 's come over thee now, In the still of the evening, When I 'd fain look aboiit me And take my convenience And draw my breath easy, That thou sett'st to to gallop As if thou wert striving To overtake Gilpin Or c4tch the last train? Jarvie Time! Jarvie Time! Hast thou n. PHILOSOPHUS AND PHILARGYRUS. PHILOSOPHUS. Ieeasuees of unsunned g6Id! PHILAEGYEUS. Where? wh4re? Oh, where? Show me the ,pMce; I '11 dig and with thee share. PHILOSOPHUS. Here, redd this book; Gods, that the precious prize Should lie till now unspied by mortal eyes! PHILAEaTEUS. No word of it here; in vain through all the book, From leaf to lei,f, from pAge to p^ge, I look. PHILOSOPHUS. Why, it 's in every page and every line ; Each word 's a signpost pointing to the mine. PHILAEGYEUS. I d6n't like riddles and still less like jokes. PHILOSOPHUS. My mine of g61d you take then for a hoax; And s6 it is, if, to a man of sense, Between a mine of gold, real difference. And the high lesson this book's leaves unfold: How to live h4ppy without mine of gold. Carlseuhe, Jan. 27, 1856. CICEEO. How good must be the author of all goodness ! CESAR. And 6h, how green the s6wer of all grass! Caelskuhe, Jan. 19, 1856. TRUTH. Ihbre is no truth but moral truth, th' accordance Of the expression with the inward thought; And of that truth there 's from its very nature No judge but one — the litterer himself. Essential truth-, th' accordance of th' expression With the thing's self, varies with every judgment, John's judgment finding perfect accord there Where William's finds but discord, or at best Accord imperfect; and not John's alone But William's judgment too gainsaying Hugh's, Hugh's Edward's^ Edward's Joseph's, and so on. On without end as long as there 's a judgment. Go to! go to! then, "thou -that seek'st lessential, Absolute truth; thou hast it at this moment; Nay, hadst it when an infant, when a boy, As sure as thou shalt have it at fourscore ; Nor to thy judgment of fourscore shall seem One whit more false the judgment of the boy. Than to the boy the judgment of fourscore. To edch age, sex and circumstance and station Its 6wn particular judgment how accord Thing and expression ; and that judgment 's trutli - Truth to the individual — and the measure By which, and which alone, he estimates, Or c4n by possibility Estimate, The truth or falsehood of his neighbour's judgment. Go, reader, then, and to thy moral truth Tenacious cling, as to thy dear Palladium, Thy honor, sacred duty and thy God, And when men talk to thee of truth essential Ask them what is it, where is it t6 be found; And if they tell thee, here or there or yonder, Awkj in the pursuit, and thou shalt never From that day forward want a pleasant pastime, A gdme for ever right before thee flying. For ever near, but never, never caught. Caklskuhe, Febr. 5, 1856. TO MY LOST ONE. * As long as I had thee, thou dearly loved flower. The year was to me sweet spring, summer, and autumn; As soon as thou dro6pedst and witheredst away. Ah! then came the cold frozen winter and st6rm. Carlskuhe, Jan. 14, 1856. * See page 181 of this volume and diroe tok the xiti. dec. mdocclii. in My Book. CORRIGENDA. Page 14. Line 7 from bottom, instead of delirittm read Delirium Page 98. Last line, instead of bast, read west. Page 118. Last line, after that and after advancement supply comma. Page 149. First and second line, instead of Even read Even Page 173. Line 3 from bottom, dele comma. Page 197. Line 2 from top, after sun and after sets supply comma. Page 204, Line 9 from top, after pl4yest supply comma. Page 237. Line 9 from bottom, instead of future, read future; Dresden , printed by 0. C. Meiniiold and Sons. CAIN, A SOLILOQUY. CAIN, A SOLILOQUY. JLt 's done. Now let me reflect on it. Methinks it looks somewhat different already. I 'm almost sorry I did it. I am sorry ; very, very sorry. If I could but undo it ! Alas ! alas ! never, never to be undone. Terrible condition ! Better not have been born! Why then did I do it? Let me think. What made me do it ? Something must have made me do it. Myself could not make myself do it. Myself make myself! Impossible. Then what made me ? Let me think. It was this hand did it. What made this hand do it? I made this hand do it. Yes; I made, caused this hand to do it. "I" is my will. My will made, caused this hand to do it. It is the act of my will; that is, of myself; my own voluntary act. I willed it. But what made me will it? In the same way as something must have made my hand do it, something must have made my will will it. A desire made my will will it. Yes; a desire, an emotion. I felt it here. An impulse stirred my will, an instinct, a passion. I felt something stir my will, make my will will it. Cursed something! Cursed impulse, passion. desire, whatever it was! But what made this impulse, this passion, this emotion, this desire stir my will ; make my will will it? How should I know? It was not my will stirred this passion, this emotion, this desire; but this passion, this emotion, this desire stirred my will ; made my will do the act. But this passion, this emotion, this desire was not made by itself; therefore must have been made by something else, something antecedent; and that something antecedent was not made by itself but by something antecedent ; and so on ; each antecedent something by something antecedent still; how far? Till we come to a God? What God? My father's God? Could my father's God make himself? Could any God make himself? Impossible. Therefore beyond a God, beyond my father's God, beyond all Gods. Each antecedent something by something antecedent still, till we come to what? To nothing ? No ; for out of that antecedent nothing there could come nothing. Therefore each antecedent something, out of something antecedent still, and so on, for ever, without end. Then there is no end. Is that possible ? Yes ; for as there is space beyond space, and space beyond space, and space beyond space, and no space beyond which there is not yet space; and as there is time beyond time, and time beyond time, and time beyond time, and no time beyond which there is not yet time ; and as there is number beyond number, and number beyond number, and number beyond number, and no number beyond which th§re is not yet number, so there is thing beyond thing, and thing beyond thing, and thing beyond thing, and no thing beyond which there is not yet thing. It follows then that I could not help doing the deed; for my will did it, and my will was made do it by something which was made to make my will do it, and so on , for ever. My will was but a link in a chain, at one end of which was the deed and at the other end, what? no other end; but the chain stretching away and away and away into the infinite distance, beyond the vision of the mind even when strained to the utmost, and with the most painful exertion. But how does it happen that a chain, infinite and unending on one hand, should be limited and have an end at the other? The chain is only a-making at that end ; the act of the will which is now the end of the chain being to be followed by its act or consequence or thing, and that act or consequence or thing by another act or consequence or thing, and that by another, and so on, into the infinite future. And thus the chain extends out of view on both sides ; is equally without beginning and without end. But if the act was necessary and could not be helped, whence this remorse? why do I accuse myself of it? why does Conscience reproach me for having done that which I could not but do ? Let me see. This remorse too must be caused. What causes it? I don't know. I can't see. Let me examine again. Is it real? Does Conscience really reproach me? First, what is Conscience? what more than feeling, sentiment? nothing more. I have a feeling that reproaches me, that says: — "Cain, you should not have done this." Let me see if I can answer that feeling, if I can reason with it. What does it say? "Cain, you should not have done so." Let me try what I can answer: — "I could not help it; something made, caused me to do so." Is Conscience content with that answer? is the feeling silenced? Yes, the feeling is silenced; it says no more "you should not have done so;" it is answered ; I should do what I was made or caused to do, or rather there is no should or should not in the question; it is simply must. That is a happy thought; Conscience is an- swered, torments me no more. But stay: it is not silent yet; it is speaking again: let me listen; what can it be saying now? It is apologising, excusing itself: it says: — "Cain, my accusation was founded on the belief that you could have done otherwise. I now perceive that you could not. I now perceive, what I never perceived before, that you do not command your will; that your will is commanded for you; caused to act by your passion, your emotion, the impression made on you; and your passion, your emotion, the impression made on you, caused again by your constitution, education, and circumstances at the moment. Your defence is good. I withdraw my charge,, and pray forgiveness." Well then ; Con- science accuses me no more; I feel remorse no longer; and yet I am unhappy; less unhappy than before, but still very unhappy. Why ? let me try to find out wherein my remaining unhappiness consists: It is not remorse; what then is it? It is regret; deep, deep regret; sorrow for what I have done. Can I not silence this sorrow, as I just now silenced my conscience ? Let me justify myself to my sorrow, as I did fo my conscience : — " Sorrow, torment me not ; I could not help it, I was made to do it." What answers Sorrow? "I torment thee, not because thou didst that which thou shouldst not have done, but because thou didst the deed at all." "I was made to do it. I could not help it." "I torment thee because thou wast made to do it." "Unhappy man that I am, tormented because I was made to do the deed! better unborn!" "Yes; it is thy misfortune to have been born to do the deed; done, I must torment thee for it. Thou wast born to be tormented by Sorrow. But tell me why didst thou do the deed?" "A feeling, a passion, an emotion moved my will to do it." "And that feeling, that passion, that emotion whence?" "From my physical constitution, my nature, my education, my circum- stances at the moment; from Adam my father, and Eve my mother, and from the maker or cause of them both." "And canst thou not now tell whence I also come, and how it is as necessary Sorrow should torment thee, as it was necessary Will should do the deed? I too am an emotion, a passion, an instinct derived from thy physical constitution, thy nature, thy education, thy parents, and their maker, and the maker of their maker, and so forth." " Then why earnest thou not in time, that I might not have done this deed?" "As well mightest thou ask why did not the pain of the bum come in time to prevent the child from putting its hand into the fire. It is the constitution of thy nature." "Unhappy constitution! Cruel, cruel tormentor that tormentest me only when it is too late, when the deed is done, and the torment useless !" "Useless with respect to the past deed, but most useful with respect to the future." "But the future deed will be as necessary as the past." "Certainly; a similar desire or passion will produce a similar deed; but the similar desire or passion, before it can produce the similar deed, must be itself produced, and I prevent its production." "Blessed, blessed Sorrow, I thank thee; go ofi, go on; I will complain no more." And now let me consider again : I am sorry that I did the deed, and this sorrow is necessary or caused; as necessary, as caused, as the passion which caused the will to do the deed. What then causes this sorrow? To answer that question I must analyse my sorrow. What am I sorry for? For killing my brother. Why should I be sorry for killing my brother ? Why ? Is it because I have lost my brother; a good, kind brother? Yes; but my sorrow is greater than could have been occasioned by the mere loss of my brother. If he had been killed by a wild beast I would have equally lost my brother, but I would not have been equally sorry, I would not, have sorrowed as I now sorrow. Am I sorry then because of the evil which has befallen my brother ? Yes ; but neither does that explain all my sorrow. I am sorrier than if he had died by the hand of another assassin, or been torn in pieces by a wild beast, yet the evil to him would have been the same. Why then do I sorrow more than for the loss I have myself sustained by my brother's death, more than for the evil which has befallen my brother? Why more? Let me think. My father and mother and sisters and every one who knows me will think worse of me for what I have done. That is a great cause of sorrow. I have lost their good opinion for ever. That indeed is terrible. But why so terrible? I could not h^lp.it; the passion, which caused my will to do the deed, was Oaused. Will they not think of that, and forgive me ? No ; they cannot forgive me ; it is impossible they should. They may indeed not inflict physical punishment on me, may not torture me, nlay not kill me, may not expel me from among them, but they cannot think of me as they did before. That is wholly impossible. They now know what they never knew before, that I am a man whose passion will carry him the length even of killing his own good and loving brother. , How can . any one ever love me more? It is impossible. I am a fallen man. But how fallen? Let me not imagine myself worse than I am. I am not fallen, for I was always the same; would have done the same thing the day before, or a week before, or a month before, or a year before, or twenty years before, if the same occasion had arisen. The same cause would have produced the same passion, the same passion caused the will to perform the same act. I am therefore no worse than before; nay the very same as before; am not fallen; only fallen in men's estimation. Then they estimated me too highly before; and should I sorrow that they now know the truth of me, that they are no longer deceived ; know that 7 am a man unsafe to live with, to come near, to have anything to do with: a man whom they should either shun, or expel from among them, or kill? Should I sorrow for this? No; I should rather rejoice; rejoice that the truth is known of me; that my friends are no longer deceived about me; will be ware of me. That at least is a, good consequence of my unhappy deed. K they had known it sooner the deed might have been prevented, and how happy had it been for me! my brother at least would still have been living. Their knowledge of me although too late to prevent that deed, is time enough to prevent a similar. Let me then not sorrow that men have now that true, knowledge of my character, which will prevent them from trusting themselves in my society for the future. They will shun me, or expel me, or kill me. Let me rejoice if they do. I cannot blame them if they do. They do it in selfpreservation. They are not safe near me. They now know they are not, and if they are wise will punish me; not out of wrath or vengeance, as I killed my brother; but to preserve themselves from me, and to deter others from fol- lowing my example. But cannot I excuse myself to them? Let me think. Have I no excuse ? Can I not silence their accusation as I silenced that of my own conscience? What did I tell Conscience ? "I could not help it ; my passion made my will do the deed, and my constitution, and education, and circumstances at the moment, caused my passion." This excuse satisfied my conscience, but did not satisfy my sorrow; will it satisfy men? Let me try: — "I could not help it. My will was made do the deed. I am not responsible. Ye cannot righteously either hate or punish me." What do they answer? ''Villain, we hate thee and punish thee, not because of the deed, but because the deed was done, even as thou thyself sayest, by thy will, and thy will made to do it by thy passion, and thy passion caused by thy constitution and education and circumstances at the moment. We will not keep among us a man of such a constitution and such an education and such consequent passion. Begone from amongst us, and be thankful that we don't kill thee as thou didst thy brother." I have nothing to reply: out of my own mouth they condemn me. Better I had not been born! But is this all the cause of my sorrow ? Has it no further cause ? Let me see. Not only has this act of mine displayed to men my true character, but to myself; I sorrow to find myself such a man as I am: to think that even before this deed I was such a man as this deed has proved me to be. I shudder at the very sight of myself, of what I have been even while no one, not even myself, so much as suspected it. My pride is humbled. I am a man of such constitution, such education, and such consequent passion, as wilfully to kill my own brother. "Wretch, hide thy face even from thyself. Happy for thee if men would kill thee before thou committest a worse act than even this! for as no one, not even thyself, could know beforehand that thy constitution, and education, and consequent passion, were such as would cause thee to commit this act, so no one, not even thyself, can know before- hand that thy constitution, and education, and consequent passion, are not such as to cause thee yet to commit an act even worse than this. Even by this one act how hast thou debased thyself in thine own eyes ! " Let me console myself however with the reflection that I am no longer deceived about myself; that I know, better than ever I did before, ray true character. Poor consolation ! and yet something ; for bad as it is to be base and vile, it is still worse to be base and vile, and believe myself noble and honorable. Well then, is this the whole? The loss of my brother; the injury done to my brother; the loss of my own esteem, and of men's esteem, and the fear of men's vengeance. Is this the whole? Have I nothing more to lament? nothing more to fear? Will not my father's God punish me also? will he not send fiends to torment me, to haunt me day and night? That is a weighty consideration. Let me see. Let me consider it well. First of all, can he? To be sure he can, for he is almighty; that is his very name, what my father calls him. Resistence and escape are alike hopeless. He can punish me if he will. But will he? Let me see. To be sure he will, for he is a terrible God, as terrible as he is strong; given to passion and anger, even as I am myself; vindictive like a man; hates like a man; re- members like a man; judges and punishes as if he were a man; and only differs fi-om man in his greater strength, and never forgiving — for he is justice itself, must execute, cannot remit or forgive; else he becomes injustice. Ter- rible God! he will punish me; and men's punishment will be as nothing to his punishment, not only on account of his unlimited power and infinite sternness, but on account of his immutability. Men may after a time forget me and my crime, but my father's God never forgets; never softens; never relents; never, never; is the same yesterday, today, and for ever. His revenge therefore lasts for ever, for ever /and ever; death which puts an end to all other sorrow is ineffectual to put an end to this ; for this terrible, this malig- nant, this irresponsible despot drags me out of that death which closes the sufferings even of the beast of the fields, and infuses into me a new and everlasting life, for the sole purpose of tormenting me everlastingly ; of tormenting me everlastingly for no good either to myself, or to himself, or to mankind, or to any one, or to any thing, but merely to indulge the malignancy of his own nature : me the work of his own hands ; me to whom he gives the irresistible inclination and the power to do the very thing which he commands me not to do, the very thing to which he attaches his everlasting punishment. Tyrant, it was not I that killed my brother, it was thou that killedst him: where is my brother, tyrant? what hast thou done with him ? The guilt is thine, not mine. I was but the club in thine hand: inflict thine eternal torment upon thyself. Cain, Cain, how spotless pure art thou in comparison with the monster — with the malignant, detestable, diabolical monster! But stay: whose God is this? Thy God, Cain? believest thou in such a God? worshippest thou such a God? prayest thou to such a God? humblest thou thyself to such a God ? to the inexorable, to the immutable, to the malignant, to the sole cause of all thy sorrow ? No, I 'm not a fool : he is not my God: he is my father's God. Let my father, if he will, honor him, and pray to him, and flatter him, and wheedle him to let him back into paradise; let him coax him, if he will, to reconstruct and remodel his bungled and imperfect work, I will have nothing to say to him. I renounce and disclaim him. What have I to do with him? What do I know about him ? Better for me if he had never existed. But for him I could not this day have been the murderer of my brother. But let me see. Does he exist? Is there really such a God? Most devoutly do I hope there is not. How happy for me, for my father, for all men, if there were not ! Let me see; let me see. Where did he come from? Who made him? What good in him? What use in him? Better without him. But my father says, this world required a God to make it. But if it did, the God that made it required another God to make him, for it is quite as easy, nay much easier, to conceive this world existing without a maker, than its maker existing without a maker. Who knows when this world which we see and feel was not to be seen and felt? who knows thai, I say? First show me that there was a time when this world which we see and feel was not to be seen and felt, and then come and ask me to imagine a God to make it. First show me that there was a time when there was no time, and then come, if thou wilt, and ask me to imagine a God to make time. First tell me at what time did this God of thine make time. If thou answerest, at such a time, then there was time before God made it. K thou answerest, at no time, then no time is never. Or where was this God of thine when he made space? — where was he when there was no "where"? Or where is this God of thine now? Is he any where? Yes, he is somewhere. Where then? In heaven. Why the change of abode? Why leave where he was before he created heaven? Nonsense, mere nonsense ; absurdities which full grown men instil into children ; bugbears with which they frighten them .antil at last they begin to be frightened themselves. But let me think seriously of it. My will did this deed; and my passion made my will do it, and my constitution and education and circumstances at the moment made my passion; and something previous made my constitution and education and circumstances at the moment; and something else previous made that previous something ; and so on beyond sight and prospect, beyond the mental horizon, away, away, into the infinite distance. And who knows what there may be in that infinite distance, away beyond the intellectual horizon? Perhaps some God as bad as, or worse than, my father's Grod. Some more malignant, more vindictive, more despotic tyrant than even he. No; impossible; for malignancy, despotism, vindictiveness , are not beyond, but within, the intellectual horizon; are here at our very hand; are caused; and it is their cause we want, something that shall explain them, that shall account for their existence and to find which something we must of course go away beyond them. Some good being then, some amiable, forgiving, merciful, wise being; some being, all wise, all good, all amiable, all perfect, such as my father tells his God he is, when he wants to cajole and wheedle him to his purpose. No, equally impossible; for it is the cause of this goodness, this amiability, this perfection, we want, and the cause must be away beyond the effect. It is not this thing, or that thing — this goodness, this badness — which we seek, but the cause of this goodness, this badness ; something therefore which is no thing. That is my God; no thing, but the cause of all things; that which is neither good nor bad, nor high nor low, nor great nor small, but which was and is beyond and before all these things and every thing, and of which I know nothing, and of which nothing can by any possibility be known except the mere negative, the pure and absolute nothing. And is this all I know? With all the force of my under- standing can I arrive at no more? If at no more, at least at no less. Ignorance rather than error. The ignorant mind may receive knowledge, for the field is open ; the erring mind cannot receive it, for the field is full, full of error. Foolish man, vain, foolish, wicked, and hypocritical man, would fain hide ignorance behind error. But who am I that talk of vanity and wickedness? I, the murderer of my brother? Yes, why not I? what is vain? what is wicked? what but men's opinion of certain acts, and why not my opinion equal to another's? What is the murder of my brother but the killing of my brother ? what makes the killing of my brother murder, and his killing of me, if he had killed me in his selfdefence, not murder? what but the opinion of men who declare that the act done with the one passion or instinct is murder, the act done with the other passion or instinct not murder? But where is the difference between the passions or instincts? What makes one better or worse than another? He offended me and my blood rose and I killed him. I offend him and his blood rises and he kills me. Where is the dif- ference but in degree? that my blood rises quick, his slow? Men judge that it is for their advantage a man's blood should rise slow and not quick, and punish me and reward him. It is the judgment of men; nothing else. Were sheep to judge, it is my brother were pronounced the murderer, who kills them in cold blood ; them who have never offended him. But killing sheep does no harm to men, and therefore men do not call him who kills them murderer, nor punish him. And so it is. Men are right, and I blame them not. They have made this rule among themselves; and I am one of them myself, and a consenting party to the rule. Sheep would do so if they could, and do so as far as they can. Lions and wolves do so. Evei-y thing that lives does so, as far as it can; makes its rules according to what it thinks its greatest interest, and calls observanoe of those rules right, and violation of them wrong. I have done this wrong, this great wrong; broken the rule made by my friends and species and self, and must bear the consequence. Dreadful consequence ! Better not have been born! Death a thousand times better. What? death? yes, death a thousand times better; next best to not to have been bom. Death then, death. My friends cannot frown on me there. Men cannot expel me there ; cannot hate me there; cannot mark me there; cannot hunt me down there; cannot hie their God, their demon, upon me there. My sorrow cannot torment me there. There at least I am safe. My passion cannot rise again there; my blood boil again there; and make my will kill another man, murder another brother. Come then, death ; sweet, gentle death, long and last oblivion, come; best, kindest friend of man, come; Oh! come, come, come. Glenageary Cottage, Dalket (Ireland). Autumn of 1851.