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“HERE I go up and down, hop, hop, hóp,
And from mórning till night never stóp
Picking seéds up and filling my cróp;
And though I 'm but a spárrow, and thoú
A mighty great mán, I allów,
I would not change with thee, somehow."

“For a thing of thy size," answered Í, “Great 's thy wisdom, I 'll never dený, So to live on the same way I 'll trý, As I lived years before thou wast hátched, Or the bárn, thou wast hátched in, was thatched; Pert spárrow, I hope thou art mátched.”

“Very well,” said the spárrow; “let bé;
Hadst thou not looked uncívil at me,
I'd no word said uncívil to thee,
For we 're brothers alike, after áll,
Though you mén, have the fashion to call
Yourselves great and us, poór sparrows! smáll.”

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Auf Wiederseh'n! politer word

I doubt not there might be,
Could one but of politeness think

When taking leave of thee.

Auf Wiederseh'n! then, dearest girl,

Since from thee I must part
Auf Wiederseh'n! not from the lips

But from the sad, sad heart.

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Adień! kind friends; and, by these idle rhymes
Or by the hour reminded, think sometimes
Óf the two strángers, widely wandering pair,
With whom ye pleased your evening walks to share,
Gláddening their one short week in still Carlsruhe,
But saddening ah, how saddening! their adieu.

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FAREWELL! and happy live till thou and I
Meet once again beneath a summer sky;
Should that day never come, then happy die
Even while I say Farewell! the minutes fly.

AÚGUST the Twenty Third, in Tübingen,
I paid a visit to the poet Uhland,
Whó with some formal courtesy received me,
And next day at my lodgings left a card.
Móre wouldst thou know of Úhland ? páy him a vísit
And, if thou ’rt áble, make more out of him
Than that he is a little, ugly, wiry,
Wrinkled, hard-visaged man of eight and sixty,
Who, jilted of his Muse, sits all day long
In his stúdy, moping over Lord knows what,
And little recks of friends, and less of strangers,
And báthes of summer mornings in the Neckar.





LEÁrning and leisure, and a gentle mind
To works of charity of itself inclined,
Vísions * of Good and Beautiful and True
Hiding the reál, sad, suffering world from view,
Are bounteous heaven's munificent gifts to thee
Enjoy them, and of all men happiest be.

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“So there 's an end!” said I, and from the grave
Turned homeward, sorrowful, my lingering step,
And down beside the cradle sat and wept,
Then, having wept my fill, went out and labored
And with eased heárt returned, and eat and slept,
And rose next day and labored, wept and slept,
And rose again next day and did the same,
And every day the same did, till the last;
And now, the last day come at long and last,
I weep because it 's come and ends my weeping.

STUTTGART, Sept. 1, 1855.

* Doctor Tafel is a zealous disciple of Swedenborg's, and has written much and amiably and eloquently, but as it appears to me, without any vis consequentiae, in support of that religionist's doctrines.


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NÁKED, and for the plunge prepared, I stood
Upon the deep pool's steep and silent brink,
And, having thought a brief farewell to home,
Kindred and friends, hopes, joys, and pains, and fears,
Leáped like a fróg into the yielding water,
Whích with a welcome gurgling filled mine ears,
And mouth and nose and eyes, and stopped my breath,
And I became as though I had not been born;
And mén set úp a stone to mark the spot,
And carved a deáth's - head and cross bones upon it,
And the reproachful words FELO DE SE;
And would have killed me tén times, if they could,
Ráther than once have lét me kill myself.
Pity their creéd 's not trué, else I'd come back
Anights, and scare them as they lie abed
Thinking of ghosts and héll- fires and the damned,
And súicides in deep, black, dismal pools,
And heaven's revenge, and their own naughtiness
Whích from their Gód even in their prayers they hide,
In vain. Let be; their creed 's their punishment.

Walking from THEMAR to Suhl, in the THURINGIAN FOREST; Oct. 3, 1855.

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