And not kept drawing still unwholesome draughts
Out of Saint Básil's, Hilary's, Chrysostom's
And Athanasius' duckmeat-mantled pools,

I doubt if in my heart I could have found it
To say, as now I say: Dante, go down.

Stand up here, little finger; thou 'rt the pensive,
Délicate, gentle, nobleminded Schiller,

Ténder white-rose frostnípped 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 thý 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 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,
For I myself don't know;

But 'twás a curious creáture,
So délicately made

It could not bear the súnshine,

It scárce could bear the shade.

Its judgment was deféctive,
Its mémory was weak,

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,
And weáry soon of rest,
It seemed always in a puzzle
Which of the two was best.

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,
Bloodshed was its delight;

To give pain, its chief pleasure
From morning until night;

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,
'Twould húnt them down for pastime,
And on their anguish gloat.

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
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 ruins strewed the valley at my feet.
Doubting, as usual, and incredulous,
Again I looked up, at and through the gap,
And saw beyond it in the clear, blue ether
The figure of a man with open shirtneck,
Seated and writing something upon papers
Which ever and anon down through the gap
He scattered to the ground. One near me fallen
I picked up, curious, and began to read;

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
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.