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Whý so shy of death, sweet infant? Death 's but one long, lásting húsh-ó, And the gráve a deep, deep cradle Húng with black cloth and white linen.

“I'm not tired yet of my corals,
Cándy, cákes, and milk and hóney;
In the gráve Mammá won't pét me,
Nór Papá bring mé new play-things."

Jóyous stripling, whý so shún death?
Death 's no crábbed, soúr preceptor,
Wákes thee not of eárly mornings;
Ứn the grave 's one lóng vacation.

“In the gráve 's one lóng vacation,
But no dice, no bowls, no tennis;
Death toasts néver in Champagne wine
Lizzy's lóve or Bélla's beaúty.”

Mán of ripe years, whý so dreád death ? În the gráve there 's no more troúble, Deáth keeps watch and léts not enter Pain or loss or fear or sorrow.

“In the gráve there is no trouble,
Bút there's also nó enjoyment,
Deáth keeps watch and léts not enter
Pleásure, prófit, hópe or honor.”

Feeble, tóttering, weary old man,
Whý from Death's kind hélp recoil so?
Seé! he spreads a soft couch for thee;
Cást thy stáff away and lié down.

“Gládly would I Death's kind hand take,
Ánd upón his soft couch stretch me,
Did no démons roúnd it hóver,
Did no nightmares its sleep trouble.”

Démons, nightmares haúnt not that bed,
Soúnd its sleép, sound, sound and dreamless ;
Láy thine head down on the pillow,
Close thine eyes now, and

all 's óver.

Walking from Suhl, in the THURINGIAN FOREST, to OIIRDRUFF; Oct. 4, 1855.

ACÚTE, observant, witty and profound,
Goethe, the worldly wise, dwells in my brain;
Bút to my heart of hearts, with all thy faults,
I take thee, gentle, noble-minded Schiller,
And with thee moúrn, not mock, humanity.

Walking from LUDWIGSBURG to BEILSTEIN (WÜRTTEMBERG); Sept. 2, 1855.

“TÉLL me, Quintus,” once said Virgil,

Ás he walked in Róme with Hórace,
“Whát think'st thou of my Enéis ?
Whó can judge so well as Quintus ?”

Fór the compliment I thánk thee,
Though I own I scárce desérve it,
Clever Públius,” answered Hórace;
“Thoú shalt heár my plain opinion:

“Thine Enéis is a great work,
Worthy mátch of Grécia's greatest,
Roúnd the Roman Hómer's témples
Binds a wreath of baý perennial.

Wider thán of Roman Eagle
Sháll the flight be of Rome's Épos,
Viewed with wonder bý unborn tribes
Óf all climates tongues and colors.”

“With the future," ánswered Vírgil,
“Let it bé as Jóve and Fáte will;
ft 's enoúgh for me, my Quintus,
To have pleased the Roman Pindar.”

OHRDRUFF, near Gotua; Oct. 4, 1855.

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me not whát her name was it's small matter

w ualne wur ask me whát herself was, And my whole being, búrsting into tears, Answers: “She was" good Gód! and ís't she was?

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SHE néver in her whole life wrote one stánza,
She knew no Greek, no Látin, scarcely French,
She pláyed not, dánced not, sáng not, yet when Death
His árms about her thréw, to tear her from me,
I would have ránsomed her, not Orpheus-like
With mine own song alone, but with all song,
Músic and dánce, philosophy and learning
Were ever, or to bé were, in the world.

Gotha, Oct. 12, 1855.


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THEY sáy I 'm of a Propaganda school
And would have áll men measure by my rule,
Ánd they say trué, perhaps; but then the rule,
I d háve them measure by, is: THERE 'S NO RULE.

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ÍNTO two clásses áll men í divide,
The oppressed on this, the oppressors on that, side;
Lét them change námes and places as they will,
Oppréssors and oppréssed I find them still.

Walking from Suhl to OBERNHOF in the THURINGIAN FOREST; Oct. 4, 1555.



HEILBRONN, SEPT. 19, 1855.

PLEÁsant it is to journey on and on,
Observing still new lands and peoples strange,
But fár more pleasant on a spot to light
Which with so friendly courtesy receives us,
Thát we stop short and say: “Why one step further ?”

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