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"There he is, my nóblest, best work;
Táke him, dó your pleasure with him.
Áfter áll perhaps I'll find some
Meáns to pátch my broken saúcer.

"Nów begóne! don't lét me see you
Hére agaín till í send for you;
I'm tired working, and intend to
Rést my weáry bónes tomorrow."

Só God lay late on the next day
Ánd the whole day lóng did nothing
Bút refléct upón his íll luck

Ánd the great spite of the ángels.

Ánd he said:

"Because I've résted

Áll this seventh day, and done nothing,

Eách seventh day shall be kept hóly
Ánd a dáy of rést for éver.”

Ánd as Gód said and commanded

Só it is now, and still sháll be:

Áll hard work done on the seventh day,
Tỏ the first day áll respéct shown.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND), Jan. 21, 1855.

DIRE Ambition úp hill toiling,
Straining évery nérve and sínew,
Sweating, pánting, táking nó rest,
Díre Ambition, lísten tó me.

Highest climbers gét the wórst falls,
Ón the hill-top stórms blow fiercest,
Lightning óftenest strikes the súmmits,
Díre Ambition, túrn and cóme down.

Ín the válley hére it 's sheltered,
Eásy, safe and súre and pleasant;

Ón those steép heights thére 's scarce foóting,

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Higher still thou climb'st and higher,
Léndest nó ear, loók'st not once down;
Álmost in the clouds I see thee,

Fár above the reách of my words.

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Summer’s váriegated, gáy leaves,
Frightened at th' approach of winter,
Lóng agó have fléd and left me
Tó thy néver-failing shelter.

Ón this bleák Novémber mórning
Ín thou peépest át my window
With as kindly, friendly greéting
Ás though we were still in Júly.

Yesterday I asked the rédbreast
Thát from yónder bare spray cárols:
"Whére, my pretty sérenáder,
Ón these cold nights findest shelter?"

"In the ivy," answered Róbin, "Underneath your bedroom window, Néstling cózy, Í care little

For the bleak nights of Novémber."

Cónquering Bacchus, from the Índies
Driving in triumphal cháriot,

Twined his Thýrsus, crówned his temples,
With thy green branch ánd black bérries.

From that day down to the présent,
Round the wine cup and the tánkard
Wind harmóniously together
Clústering grape, and ivy bránches.

Clearer, sweeter fár the honey
Í 've each morning at my breakfast
Than the honey the Athénians

Brought from Hýbla ánd Hyméttus;

Why? because all thé long súmmer
My bees riot in thy blossoms,
Ánd who éver heard of ivy

Ón Mount Hýbla ór Hyméttus?

When I'm dead and o'ér my ashes

Ríses thé cold márble cólumn,

Shroúd it, ívy, with thy green leaves;

Áll too late the páltry tribute.

Walking from FONTAINE L'EVEQUE to BASÉCLES, HAINAULT (BELGIUM); Nov. 12-13, 1854.

WHY paint Death the king of térrors?

Whó so quiet, cálm and peaceful?
Whó so húmble? whó so lovely?
Whó a kínder friend to mán is?

Why hung round with black the chamber?
Whý those sád looks, sighs and sobbings?
Tósses ón this coúch a féver?

Heáves this breast with anxious thróbbings?

Ón these cheeks there glóws no ánger,
Ón these pále lips writhes no ánguish;
Cáre this brów no lónger wrinkles,
From these lids no teárs are starting;

Foolish moúrners, fór yourselves weep,
Who have still with Life to struggle,
Life the treacherous, únrelénting,
Crúel king of pains and térrors.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND); April 2, 1855.

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