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And not kept drawing still unwholesome draughts
Out of Saint Básil's, Hilary's, Chrysostom's
And Áthanasius' duckmeat-mantled pools,
I doubt if in my heart I could have found it
To say, as now I say: Dante, go down.

Stand úp here, little finger; thou 'rt the pensive,
Délicate, gentle, nobleminded Schiller,
Ténder white-rose frostnipped in Weimar's garden
Ére it had raised its modest head above
Luxúriant Goethe's all too neighbouring shade.
Redundancy of words, enthusiasm,
Subjectiveness (youth's faults) are thy faults, Schiller!
Amiable weaknesses which every day
Of longer life had sobered, cúrtailed, cured
Diis aliter visum; so thou must go down.

Só, being a bóy, I used to count my fingers,
And só in mảnhood sometimes count them still
In the late gloaming or the early morn
Or when I sleepless ' lie at deep midnight.

Walking from Sanct Anton on the ADLERBERG (German TYROL) to TEUFEN in Canton APPENZELL, Sept. 6—10, 1854.

*WHÝ 's a priest like a fingerpost, you dunce ?"
Said a schoolmáster to his pupil once;
"I think I know,” replied the roguish elf;

"He points the way, but never goes himself.” Walking from UNTERBRUCK to KREUTZSTRASSEN near Munich, July 4, 1854.

THERE was a curious creature

Lived many years ago;
Don't ask me what its name was,

For I myself don't know;

But 'twas a curious creature,

So délicately made
It coúld not bear the súnshine,

It scárce could bear the shade.

Its júdgment was deféctive,

Its mémory was weak, Until it was two years old

Not one word could it speak.

Caprícious in its témper,

And gráve by fits, then gay, It seldom liked tomorrow

The thing it liked today.

When 't mét a little trouble

'Twould heáve a doleful sigh, Clásp its forepaws together

And loudly sob and cry;

And then when something pleased it

"Twould fall into a fit And work in such convulsions

You 'd think its sides would split

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And when it could no more eat

But was stuffed up to the throat,
'Twould húnt them down for pástime,

And on their anguish gloat.

Of ímitative manners,

Ånd a baboon in shape,
Some naturalists will have it,

It was a kind of ape;

But Í would not believe it

Though depósed to upon oath
Such cálumnies to crédit

Wise men were ever loath;

And all the ancient récords

Unanimous declare
It was God's own legítimate

Líkeness and son and heir,

That for some seventy years should

Live wickedly, then die
And túrn into an angel

And flý up to the sky;

And there in the blue éther

With God for ever dwell,
Oft wondering how it came there

When 't should have been in hell.

Begun at Arco in the Italian TYROL, Aug. 24, 1854; finished while walking from CAMPIGLIO across the Val di Non and over the PALLADE to SPONDINI at the foot of the ORTELER, Aug. 29 to Sept. 2, 1854.

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Ir háppened as one summer day I walked
From Küssnacht round the Righi's foot to Schwyz,
And had behind me left Tell's Hollow Way
And the green, sloping banks of Zug's clear lake,
That looking up I saw a gap in the clouds
And asking what had made it, was informed
'Twas left there by the fall of Rossberg mountain
Whose rúins strewed the valley at my feet.
Doubting, as usual, and incredulous,
Again I looked up, at and through the gap,
And sáw beyond it in the clear, blue ether
The figure of a man with open shírtneck,
Seáted and writing something upon papers
Which éver and anon down through the gap
He scáttered to the ground. One near me fallen
I picked up, curious, and began to read;
But being no lover of non sequiturs
And Beggings of the Argument and mean
And vúlgar thoughts dressed up in melodrame,

* Mountains have fallen Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock Rocking their Alpine brethren; filling up The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters, Damming the rivers with a sudden dash Which crushed the waters into mist, and made Their fountains find another channel thus, Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg.

BYRON.

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