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FROM his shroud the dead man peéping
Sáw the moúrners round him weéping,
Heárd such sóbs and sighs and groáns
Might have mélted hearts of stones.

Nót a word the dead man said,
Bút the thoúght came into his head :
Tó that whining blúbbering páck
Gód keep me from going back.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY; April 3, 1855.

WHAT benéficent Jóve was 't, or Búddh or Osiris
Or Sáturn or Sátan, who, not for their own good
But mán's use, creáted poor bírds, beasts and fishes;
And his protégé, móre to enrich and exált him,
Into two halves divided and to the one half
Gave the other for sérvant and bóndslave for ever?



Fróm my bedroom, in my gówn,
Évery mórn when Í come down,
Tráy says tó me with his tail: -
“Hópe I see you fresh and hále.”

Át my breakfast when I sít
Munching slowly bít by bít,
Tráy reminds me with his páw
Hé too has a tooth and jáw.

When I take my hát and stick,
Tráy perceives the motion quick
Ánd across the párlour floor
Scampers jóyful to the door.

When I walk along the street
Stopping every friend I meet
With : “Good morning! hów do
Tráy's nose ásks each: – “Who are you?”

you do ?”

To Belinda's when I come,
Tráy snuffs round and round the room,
Thén lies dówn beside my chair,
Knows I 'll stáy a lóng while thére.

When I rise to go away
Fróm Belinda's, and call Tráy,
Tráy comes slówly, knowing well
í 've to say a lóng farewell.

Dówn the street toward my hall - door
When I turn my fáce once more,
Whó so joyful thén as Tráy ?
Trý if you can make him stáy.

Tó my doór got, if bell - ring
Doés not quickly some one bring,
You would píty Tráy's hard case,
Drooping tail and ruéful fáce.

Ópened when the door at lást,
Tráy bolts maid and master pást,
Ảnd, ere well hung úp my hát,
Ón the hearthrug outstretched flát

Liés with múzzle on the ground,
Ảnd half clósed eye, watching round,
While prepáratives dúly máde
Crúmbcloth spread and táble laid

Hérald neár approaching Threé,
Hoúr of weight to Tráy and mé;
Weighty hour to mé and Tráy,
Túrning - point of the whole dáy.

Súch our fórenoons; would you know
íf our afternoons pass só,
Wórse or better; I can't say
There's much difference - is there, Tráy ?


No more questions, good friend, no more questions, I práy;
I'd be chooser mysélf what to sáy or not sáy;
With your “Whó ?' Which ?' and `Whát?' 'How?' "When ?'

Wherefore?' and Why?'
You but shút my heart clóser, my tongue tighter tié;
Nay, you 've nó one to blame but yourself, if with lýing
And quibbling and shuffling I páy back your prýing.
So deal with me fairly and give quid pro quo
And your own thoughts first tell me, if my thoughts you'd know.

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'TIS the little boy láshing his top in the court;
With áll his whole heart he 's intént on his spórt,
And ás his top mérrily spins round and roúnd,
In the world where 's a háppier soul to be found ?

I 'll go down to the court and the whole livelong dáy
At whip-my-top thére with that happy boy pláy;
Give me tóp and lash here, and let hím take who will
My grówn man's wealth, honors, strength, wisdom, and skill.



in Tibur's pleasant villa Strolled Mecénas once with Hórace, " What can bé the reáson, poet," Said Mecénas cavalierly,

* Thát the adjective must álways
To the noún be só obsequious;
Follow all its whíms and húmors,
Trót beside it like a spániel ?”

“I don't know, heard never reason,”
Ánswered Hórace, his head shaking.
“Whát! not know?” repliéd Mecenas,
“I thought poets knew all such things."

“Nów I récolléct," said Hórace
With an arch smile, “my schoolmáster
Úsed to say that noún was pátron,
Adjective, poor dévil! poet.”

Walking from Zell to SIMMERN, RHENISH PRUSSIA; July 9, 1855.

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