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That 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 read 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,
Adváncing 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 invísible, 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,
Feeling, 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 mínutely 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.

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IT wás a sultry Júly day,
Stretched on the Alpine sward I lay;
There was no shelter, not a cloud
The sún’s downdárting rays to shroud.

'Twas noon; no breath, no stir, no sound
Distúrbed the spacious landscape round;
No bírd, no grasshopper, no fly
Ventured beneath the flaring sky.

And there upon the grass I lay
In the full sún that sultry day,
The heat, the air, the clear, blue sky
Ánd my own thoughts my company.

And so the livelong summer day
High on the mountain's breast I lay,
Háppier than César when Rome's crowd
Shoúted their vivats long and loud;

For his thoughts were of self and Rome,
Greátness and power and fame to come,
Míne of the warm sun, mountain air,

And náture lovely every where.
While walking from PEUDELSTEIN in the valley of AMPEZZO, to AMPEZZO,
July 23, 1854.

WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF SIGNOR ANGELO

MICHELE

NEGRELLI AND ELISABETHA NEGRELLI OF PRIMIERO WHO AFTER HAVING BEEN SIXTY FOUR YEARS MARRIED, AND HAVING EACH ATTAINED NEARLY THE AGE OF NINETY, DIED IN THE YEAR 1849 WITHIN THREE DAYS OF

EACH OTHER.

THEY lived through every change of wind and weather
Sixty four years, a loving pair, together;
Thén, within three days of each other, died
Ere either missed the other from the side.
Thrice háppy, happy, pair! to the last breath
United, and not parted even by death.

PRIMIERO in the Italian TYROL, July 29,

1854.

“How håppens it that no one with his lot
Contented lives?" Horace once asked Mecenas;
Í, for Mecenas answered not, will answer,
Meáning no harm to Horace or Mecenas:
“Nó one contented with his own lot lives,
Because each one his neighbour's lot thinks better,
And each one better thinks his neighbour's lot
And worse his own, because each one the goods
Sees of his neighbour's lot, feels not the pains;
Whilst of his own lot each one feels the pains
And, blind as any bat, sees not the goods.”
PRIMIERO in the Italian TYROL, July 30, 1854.

THE GATES OF SLEEP.

THERE ảre two gates of Sleep, the poet says;
Of pólished ivory one, of horn the other;
But í, besides these gates, to blessed Sleep
Three other gates have found which thus I count:
First the star-spángled arch of deep midnight,
When lábor ceases, every sound is hushed,
And Náture, drowsy, nods upon her throne.
Pále-visaged Spectres round this gate keep watch,
And Fears and Horrors vain, and beyond these
Rést, balmy Sweat, and dim Forgetfulness,
Relieved, at dawn of day, by buoyant Hope,
Fresh Strength and ruddy Health and calm Composure
And daring Enterprize and Selfreliance.

The second gate is wreathed, sideposts and lintel,
With ódorous trailing hop, and poppystalks;
The shadowy gateway paved with poppyheads.
And there, all day and night, keeps watch sick Fancy
Hággard and trémbling, and delirium wild,
And Ímpotence with drunken glistening eye,
And Ídiotcy, and, in the background, Death.

The third gate is of lead, and there sits ever
Húmming her tedious tune Monotony,
Tired of herself; about her on the ground
Sermons and psalms and hymns lie numerous strewed,

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