Cries "stóp!" or complains that I 've given him too múch;
And, more wonderful still, it's no matter how badly-,
How hálf-made, a chúrl may drop out of the wheel,
The first whiff of this gás at once mákes him contént,
Makes him certain I 've never put out of my hands

A more finished, more faúltless, more élegant creáture;
Well pleased with himself, he 's well pleased with his máker,
I'm praised, and he 's happy, and áll goes on right.
Cut off, or but stint, the supply of this gás,

And my wheel 's at a stánd, or we 're in insurréction."
"Thou tell'st wónders; canst with a small sample oblige me
Of the mágical stúff to try on my dumb creátures?"

-

"Thou shalt not have one oúnce - what a world we'd have of it
Were both men and beasts vaín! No, upon the great lándmarks
Thou must not lay a finger; beasts must still remain beásts,
Gods be Gods and men mén; and without the stuff thoú
Hast with thý children léss care and trouble, beliéve me,
Than Í, even with all its best help, have with mine."
No móre said Prométheus but ón with his work went,
And to his beasts, thoughtful, retúrned Epimétheus.
CARLSRUHE, Dec. 18, 1855.

O INSCRÚTABLE jústice and mércy and wisdom! Unabashed in thy fáce looks the apple, the sinner; The innocent peár droops its head, bears the sháme. CARLSRUHE, Dec. 28, 1855.

As hé, who, travelling westward, sees with joy
The spléndors of the evening sun reflected
Éven from the cold clouds of the distant east,
So happy hé, who, from his seventieth year
Back-looking, sees the morning of his days
Refúlgent with the brightness of his evening.

WEINSBERG (WÜRTTEMBERG), Sept. 18, 1855.

WHAT 's this? a cóffined córpse? no, ráther say
An old, worn oút clock in its lacquered clockcase,
The main spring bróken, motionless the hands,
The dial inexpréssive, clapper silent

And néver móre to signalize the sad

Or joyful hoúr's arrival or departure.

Walking from GIEBELSTADT in BAVARIA to MERGENTHEIM in WÜRTTEMBERG, Oct. 22, 1855.

HE.

THE cause I'd fain know

Why thou 'rt álways so slów

When thou 'rt cóming to mé;

My feét leave behind

The speed of the wind,

When I'm going to theé.

SHE.

Nay nay, it's not só;

It 's thoú that art slów

When thou 'rt cóming to mé,

I'm arrived even before

I have left my own doór,

When I'm going to theẻ.

CARLSRUHE, Dec. 12, 1855.

BAWSINT MALKIN.

Ir happened once upon a time as Jénny Dobbs was milking Bawsint Málkin in the cowhouse, and no mánner of harm was thinking,

Bawsint Málkin gave a súdden rout as if some Spirit posséssed her,

And kicking with her hind foot spilt the milk about the cówhouse.

Now the kick came most unluckily just át the very moment The paíl was nearly fúll and Malkin's údder nearly émpty, So it's no great wonder Jénny Dobbs was not exactly quíte pleased,

And let Báwsint Malkin knów it with a thúmp on her hind quárter

And some such words as "Wicked beast" and "bád drop always in ye."

Now Jenny's cow had sénse enough and thús she answered

roúting,

And would have said in Jénny's speech had Jenny Dobbs been Bálaam:

"Keep off your hands; the milk was mine, I hád 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 heád here,

And wait but till my údder 's dry to sell me to the bútcher." So Báwsint Malkin's routing meant and Jénny for her paílful Of spilt milk had a lésson got, had shé but understood it.

Walking from Gommersdorf to BRETTACH (WÜRTTEMBERG), Oct. 23-24, 1855.

HIS máster deád, poor Snap with troubled eye Looks earnest in my face and asks me: Why? "Ásk me not, Snáp; thou know'st as much as I." WEINSBERG (WÜRTTEMBERG), Sept. 7, 1855.

GOETHE, thou say'st a póem was néver goód
Unless 'twas written ón some pát occasion
Agreed: thy poems are legion; for how many,
Sáy, on a poet's faith, hadst pát occasion?

Walking from BRETTACH to WEINSBERG (WÜRTTEMBERG), Oct. 24, 1855.

TO A POET

ABOUT TO WRITE IN A LADY'S NEW ALBUM.

WHAT! spoil the lady's album with thine ink,
The beautiful, new álbum! Sir, just think:
Those véllum 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.

CARLSRUHE, Dec. 3, 1855.