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Álways in consequence of Thought's command
That I doubt not Will's recent suit was brought"
“Stop there,” said the Chief-justice; “until now
Your évidence has been direct and valid,
Bút in a court of justice the opinion
Éven of wise Metaphysics has no weight.
Go dówn.” “My Lord,” then thus said the defendant:
“This Métaphysics is my ancient foe,
His évidence the outpourings of a malice
Which never ceases to abuse all ears
With stóries of my slavery and dependance.
This honorable court, I hope, my lord,
Will not lend ear to the calumniator.”
But here the auditory with one voice
Begán to cry:
“Will never was a servant,
And never sháll be; Metaphysics lies;
Punish the perjurer and let Will go free;"
And when the Judge would not, but with loud voice
Commánded Will to be bound hand and foot
And to his rightful lord delivered over,
Aróse such uproar that the Judge his safety
Sought in precipitous flight through a postern door;
Whereón the mob with fury fell on Thought
And Metaphysics; trod them under foot,
And for dead left them; then upon a chair
Uplifted on their shoulders Will, and bore him
With shouts of triumph round and round the city.
Walking from Azolo to MESTRE near Venice, Aug. 5–6, 1854.
PRINCE Páskewitsch to Turkey went
His rage upon
rogues to vent
Who vowed they never would consent
Czar Nick should have the management
Of their Greek church;
But just as he arrived before
Silístria's barricaded door,
Néver let schoolboy such a roar
Out of his mouth, at the first sore
Skelp of the birch,
As Páskewitsch, when trundling slow
A cannon ball so bruised his toe
That stooping down he cried “Oh! oh!"
And right aboút faced, home to go,
And in the lurch
Left lýing there his haversack
And boot pulled off without a jack
And traín-oil-drinking Don Cosaque,
And ón Silistria turned his back
And the Greek church.
Walking from Schönau to LICHTENSTEIN (Saxony), June 19, 1854.
RÉSTLESS as billows of the sea
And agile be thy feet,
Firm as a rock thy purpose be,
Nor from the right retreat.
Walking from Arco to Tenno in the Italian TYROL, Aug. 24, 1854.
NÉVER tell me there 's no such thing as friends,
Steady, true, constant, without selfish ends;
Óf my long life 't has been the happiness
To have had some five and twenty, more or less.
Aye, to be sure; friends of the summer day,
That at the approach of winter fled away.
Nó; sterling friends that ever ready were
The worst inclemencies for me to bear
Of wintry weather, hail and rain and snow,
No less than sultry summer's burning glow.
Alás! those valued friends are dead and gone,
Dropped off one after another all but one
Newest and last but not least stout and true
Thou 'st néver seen a better parapluie.
Walking from Haag to HAINBACH near AMBERG (BAVARIA), June 25, 1854.
Sometimes it is slow, sometimes it 's quick,
But still the clock goes tick tick tick;
And tick tick tick from morn to night
Goes still the heart, be it sad or light;
But sád or light and slow or quick,
Both soon shall cease their tick tick tick.
TAUERNHAUS, FEHRLEITEN, at the foot of the Gross - GLOCKNER, July 15, 1854.
Í, BEING a bóy, used thus to count my fingers :
Stand úp, right thúmb here; thou art Geoffrey Chaucer,
Grave, reverend father of old English song,
The clear, the strong, the dignified, the plain;
I love thee well, thy prologues and thy tales,
Néver for me too long, nor long enough;
Thoú art my dictionary, primer, grammar;
From theé I 've learned, if I have learned, my tongue,
Nót from the modern winnowers perverse
Who sáve the chaff and cast away the grain.
Yét, Chaucer, though I honor and admire
And deárly love thee, there are in my breast
Some deep emotions which thou touchest never:
Kind, gentle, tearful pity, dire revenge,
Stérn, unrelenting hatred, and sweet love;
Awe reverential too of influences
Uneárthly, unsubstantial, superhuman,
And almost adoration of the face
Sublime of wild, uncultivated nature -
Chaúcer, thou toúchest none of these; go down.
Stand up, forefinger; thou 'rt the arch - enchanter,
Sweet, fánciful, delicious, playful Shakespeare,
With his hobgoblins, fairies, Bottom, Puck,
His robbers and his cút-throats and his witches,
And bóld Sir John and all his men in buckram,
And gentle Juliet and impassioned Romeo,
And bloody Richard wooing lady Ann
Or stúdying prayers between two reverend bishops.
But charming though thou art and captivating,
And lóved within the cockles of my heart,
I 've yét a crow to pluck with thee, my Shakespeare;
For whén thou shouldst be noble thou 'rt oft mean,
And full of prattle when thou shouldst be brief,
And, like a míser doating grown and blind,
Stúffest into thy bags of gems and gold,
Nót the pure métals only but false coins
And víle alloys groped out of mire and dirt,
Which éven the scavenger had disdained to touch
I 'm sorry, Shakespeare, but thou must go down.
Stand up, strong middle finger; thou 'rt John Milton,
Mónarch of England's poets, prince of verse;
I love thy deep, harmonious, flowing numbers,
Thy sénse, thy leárning, gravity and knowledge,
Thy rátional Adam, and sweet, hapless Eve;
Bút I like not thy bitter polemics,
Thy small philosophy and mean religion,
Nor that inflexible, obdurate temper
Thou bórrowedst from the temper of the times;
No vénial faults are these, so get thee down.
Stand úp, ring finger; thou 'rt accomplished Pope,
Melódious minstrel of the rounded rhyme,
Philosopher and satirist and wit,
Acúte, dogmatic, antithetic, bright,
The poet of the reason not the heart,
A pédagogue who lashes and instructs,
A rhétorician léss loved than admired,
Who, when we ask him for a tender tale,