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And not kept drawing still unwholesome draughts
I doubt if in my heart I could have found it
Stand up here, little finger; thou 'rt the pensive,
Ténder white-rose frostnípped in Weimar's garden
Luxúriant Goethe's all too neighbouring shade.
Subjectiveness (youth's faults) are thý faults, Schiller!
Of longer life had sobered, cúrtailed, cured
Diis aliter visum; so thou must go down.
Só, being a boy, I used to count my fingers,
And só in mánhood sometimes count them still
Ín 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.
'WHY 's a priest like a fingerpost, you dunce?"
Said a schoolmaster 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 creáture
Lived mány years ago;
Don't ask me what its name was,
But 'twás a curious creáture,
It could not bear the súnshine,
It scárce could bear the shade.
Its judgment was deféctive,
Until it was two years old
Not one word could it speak.
Capricious in its témper,
And gráve by fits, then gay,
It séldom liked tomorrow
The thing it liked today.
When 't mét a little trouble
"Twould heave a doleful sigh,
Clasp its forepaws together
And loudly sob and cry;
And then when something pleased it
"Twould fall into a fit
And work in such convúlsions
You'd think its sides would split
With little taste for lábor,
So áfter a while's lábor
It would sit down and say: "This lábor is a killing thing, I'll work no more today."
Then after a while's sitting
"Twould fold its arms and cry:
"Donóthing 's such a weariness I'd álmost rather die."
As fóx or magpie clever,
And full of guile and art,
Its chiéfest study ever
Was how to hide its heart;
And séldom through its feátures
Could you its thoughts discern, Or what its feelings towards you From words or manner learn.
Fierce, únrelenting, crúel,
To give pain, its chief pleasure
All kinds of beasts, birds, fishes, 'Twould fall upon and kill,
And not even its own like spare, Its húngry maw to fill;
And when it could no more eat
But was stuffed up to the throat,
And there in the blue éther
With God for ever dwell,
Oft wondering how it cáme there
When 't shoúld 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.
THE GAP IN THE CLOUDS.*
Ir happened as one summer day I walked
But being no lover of non sequiturs
And Béggings 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
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, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg.