CESAR AND CASSIUS.

"TELL me, Július" once said Cassius Ás he walked in Róme with César, Chátting úpon various tópics,

And they both as yét were young men

"Thoú 'rt a wise lad, and I'm less shy Tó enquire of theé than Cáto

Whither, when it leaves the body,

Think'st thou, Július, doés the soúl go?"

"Soul go, Caius?" answered César,

"Soul go without limbs or body?

Soúl have voluntáry mótion

Without moving apparátus?"

"Well, perhaps I 've used too strong word,

And what goés must bé corpóreal,

Bút it feels, the soúl feels, Július,

Áfter it has left the body?"

"Tó be súre; feels without sénses,

Sees without eyes,

heárs without ears,

Smells without nose, tástes without tongue

What 's come over theé, good Caius ?"

"I had better have asked Cáto,
Thoú 'rt so hárd upón me, Július,

Bút thou 'lt nót deny the soúl knows
After it has left the body."

"Knóws withoút brain, meán'st thou Caius ?
Knóws withoút nerves ór sensórium?

Knóws, though knowing 's bút impréssion,
Ór deduction from impression?"

"Well, I cáre not, só thou gránt'st me
What I think thou 'lt gránt me, Július,
That the soúl survives the body,

Lives on in a world beyond this."

"Lives, thou meán'st, although it hasn'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!

"Í'm contént, and wish thee áll joy,
Caíus, óf the rích revérsion;

I'll take this world, thou the next take;
What think'st óf the bárgain, Caíus?"

Óf the bargain whát thought Cassius,
If his gráve smile showed not that day,
Ín the Cúria, lóng years áfter

Ón the Ides of Márch, his steel showed.

CARLSRUHE, Nov. 11, 1855.

INSCRIPTION

FOR A LUCIFER MATCH BOX.

(III)

PROMETHEUS' theft in these dry chips lies hid: Wouldst thou convinced be, rub one on the lid. WEINSBERG (WÜRTTEMBERG), Sept. 22, 1855.

OTHELLO says: Thy púrse is trásh;
Trúst in thy goód name, nót thy cásh.
But f say: Thý good name 's but trash
If in thy púrse there is no cásh.

GIEBELSTADT near WÜRZBURG, Oct. 21, 1855.

So
many maps, guides, signposts point the way
Tó the next world, I scarce can go astray
This side the frontier; but, the barrier past,
And firm foot sét on the strange soil at last,
I'm in a fix, whither to turn, what do,
So inexpérienced I, all round so new -
Óh for some trústy Murray in my hand,

Some Réd Book in, not to, the unknown land!

GOTHA, Oct. 12, 1855.

As I walked by the hedge
Of my own Truelove's garden,
An hour before sunset
One fine summer évening,
And thought of my Love,

I saw through the hédge,
Where the házel was thinnest,
Something white in the árbour,
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 hálf through the hédge pressed,

And saw 'twas my Love.

The lóng, streaming golden rays

Lít up the árbour,

And painted more rósy
More dámask than éver

The cheek of my Love,

As there without bonnet,
Her head on her arm laid,
Her árm on the táble,

In the rústic chair sitting
Slept Liddy, my Love.

I could see her breast heáving,
Almost hear her breathing;
In her lap lay the nosegay
Which early that morning
I had sent to my Love.

How it happened I scárce know
Or what 'twas that happened,
But, in óne minute áfter,
I found myself stealing
Away from my Lóve;

Back stealing on tiptoe,
As noiseless as shadow,
Or fly that had just sipped
And flew away light from
The lips of my Love.

I might have staid lónger,
I might have pressed hárder,
I might have more noise made,
She had still not awakened,
Sly Líddy, my Love!

CARLSRUHE, Dec. 9, 1855.