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It was the morning of the Sunday first
In Advent, when, four hours before daylight,
Ảnna Maria Prieth, the widow, left
House, home, and children five at Pitz and crossed
The ice of Reschen's frozen lake to Graun,
There made confession of her sins and eased
By that sweet sacrament her burthened mind.
'Twas not yet light when 'cross the ice returning,
Pleased with herself and with the world at peace,
And full of happy thoughts of home and children,
She trod upon a spot

Ah! blessed Mary,
Móther of God, where wast thou at that moment?
Above a spring the weakened ice gave way,
And not till five months later, when May's sun
Unbound the icy fetters of the Vintschgau,
Was found the body; the blessed spirit meanwhile
A stone attests it on the banks of Reschen,
And every Advent the officiating
Cúrate of Graun confirms it from the altar
Sank not into the abysm but, upward borne
By hands angelic, soared until it joined
The harmónic choirs that never ceasing sing
Glad hymns of praise around the eternal throne.

Walking from RESCHEN in the VINTSCHGAU (German TYROL) to PFUNDS, Sept. 3, 1854.

* The principal facts of this story are taken from an inscription on a stone on the banks of the lake of Reschen.

MARY'S WRAITH.

'Twas eárly on an April morn
As músing sad and all forlorn
I walked through the scarce brairded corn,

Ah, well aday!
Methoúght I heard close by my side
A voice that “Woé 's me!” three times cried,
And sáw a figure past me glide,

Ah, well aday!
By her white scarf and ribbons blue
My own dear Mary's form I knew,
My Máry of the heart so true,

Ah, well aday!
“And whát, my Mary, hast to do
Hére in chill April's morning dew?"
She answered not but from my view,

Ah, well aday!
Away far into thin air led
Quickfoot to Máry's home I sped,
And there lay Mary stretched out dead,

Ah, well aday!
Walking from Rottach on TEGERNSEE to SEEHAUS on ACHENSEE in the
German TYROL, July 9, 1854.

LABOR AND IDLENESS.

It háppened once that in a coffeehouse How many years ago it is not certain – Lábor and Idleness together met, And thús said Idleness to Labor, sighing: “Well, it 's a weary world! I can't conceive How ány one can like it; for my part I wish I had died an infant or had never Been born at all — what think'st thou, brother Labor?" It máy be as thou say'st or it may not, For aúght I know," said Labor with a smile; To sáy the truth my life has been so busy I 've had small time to enquire into the subject.” “And dóst thou really mean thou dost not know Whéther thy life 's a pleasant one or not?” “I dó indeed, and, what will more surprise thee, I rarely think either of pain or pleasure Ór of myself at all; I'm always aiming At something I 've in hand that must be done; Of thát and that alóne I 'm always thinking.” And so thou slipp'st through life almost without Knowing thou 'rt in it happy, happy Labor! While Í am always wondering why the day 's So very long, so full of care and trouble." “To mé the day is well nigh over ere I feel it 's well begun. I'd wish it longer

Thát I might do more work, get further forward.
Éven for this hour here spent with thee in gossip
I fear my sleep tonight will have to pay."
So said and to his work away went Labor
Cheerful and humming a song; but Idleness
Looked after him some moments, wishing half
That he too had some work to do; then listless
Flúng himself into a chair and dozed, or smoked
And reád the news until the clock struck dinner.

Walking from BAIREUTH to HAAG (BAVARIA), June 23–24, 1854.

OLD MAN.

At six years old I had before mine eyes
A picture painted, like the rainbow, bright,
But fár, far off in th' unapproachable distance.
With all my childish heart I longed to reach it,
And stróve and strove the livelong day in vain,
Advancing with slow step some few short yards
But not perceptibly the distance lessening.
At threéscore years old, when almost within
Grasp of my outstretched arms the selfsame picture
With all its beauteous colors painted bright,
I 'm backward from it further borne each day
Bý an invisible, compulsive force,
Grádual but yet so steady, sure, and rapid,
That at threescore and ten I 'll from the picture
Be éven more distant than I was at six.

Walking from Mals to GRAUN (German TYROL), Sept. 3, 1854.

VERY OLD MAN.

I wéll remember how some threescore years
And tén ago, a helpless babe, I toddled
From chair to chair about my mother's chamber,
Feéling, as 'twere, my way in the new world
And foolishly afraid of, or, as 't might be,
Foólishly pleased with, th' únknown objects round me.
And now with stiffened joints I sit all day
In one of those same chairs, as foolishly
Hóping or fearing something from me hid
Behind the thick, dark veil which I see hourly
And minutely on every side round closing
And from my view all objects shutting out.
Walking from Mals to GRAUN (German TYROL), Sept. 3, 1854.

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT POSSAGNO

AFTER VISITING CANOVA'S MODELS COLLECTED AND PRESERVED AT POSSAGNO, THE ARTIST'S BIRTH- AND BURIAL - PLACE, BY MONSIGNORE SARTORI CANOVA, BISHOP OF MINDO, HIS HALF BROTHER.

Póets have lived who never in their lives
Composed one line of blank or rhyming verse,
Yet left behind them no less lovely thoughts
And no less durable than Petrarch's own,
Tásso's, or Ariosto's; witness thou,
Posságno, tomb and birthplace of Canova.

Aug. 4, 1854.

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