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Once wreathed themselves or plucked the odd white hair,
Lie mouldering in the sepulchre, and I,
Three foúrths my journey made to the same goal,
Pláy 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 (BELGIUM); Nov. 12,

1854.

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE TOMBSTONE OF MARAT.

*

Slaín by an ángel in the guise of woman
Here lies that fiend incarnate, Jean Marat;
The enemy of mankind, THE PEOPLE'S FRIEND.
Alás, magnanimous Corday, that the world
Must búy its ríddance from the incubus
Át the too high price of thy virgin blood !

LILLE, DEP. DU NORD (FRANCE); Nov. 17,

1854.

LÉT men boast their Brútus,
Scévolá and Cócles,
Women have their greater,
Nóbler, púrer Córday.

LILLE, DEP. DU NORD (FRANCE); Nov. 17, 1854.

* L'ami du peuple.

í

DON'T know thee, Sorrow, Háye no wish to know thee, Dón't admire thy pále face Drooping líds and moist cheeks.

Yét methinks I 've seen thee
Ah! I now remember -
Twice before I 've seen thee,
Dísmal, black - robed Sorrow.

First when on her deathbed
Láy my noble mother
And with failing breáth breathed
Blessings on her children,

Thére beside the deathbed
í behéld thee, Sórrow,
Wring thy hands in ánguish,
And the scálding tear shed.

Néxt I sáw thee, Sorrow,
Sítting bý my Ánn Jane's
Néw - made moúnd sepúlchral
Ín the vale of Sárca.

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“Then we'll sometimes meet, James,
As of old we met oft,
And while we 're together
Think we've never párted."

Flý fly, háted daylight!
Sweet night, cóme again quick!
Till again I meet her
Whó by dáylight néver

Meets me since we párted.
In the vále of Sárca.
Would there were no daylight,
Bút deep midnight ever!

TOURNAY (BELGIUM), Nov. 16, 1854.

í

WOULD not believe it,
Though a thousand swore it,
Thát the great and good God
Púnishés his creatures ;

Why did hé so make them
Thát same great and good God
With those powerful pássions
Ánd that púny foresight?

Like the boiling láva,
Like the hówling témpest,
Like the rolling thủnder,
Like the flashing lightning,

Rúshing únexpected
Cómes the passion on them;
When the pássion 's on them,
Whére 's the power to stáy it?

Áh, the hápless creatures !
Hów they ’re tórn and táttered
Bý the ráging pássions
Given them by the good God!

Lét it come more slowly,
Stealthily creep on them,
Still it comes as súrely,
Thé insidious pássion;

Coils itself aboút them,
Squeézes bones and marrow,
With its fángs their flésh nips,
Spírts its vénom on them.

Áh the hápless creatures
Bítten, squeézed and poisoned
By the venomous pássions
Given them by the good God!.

Hé it is I'd punish
Whó the pássions gáve them,
Nót the hápless creatures
Víctims of the passions.

Walking from FLEURUS to FONTAINE L’EVEQUE, HAINAULT (BELGIUM); Nov. 11, 1854.

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