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Were wide and wider every moment spreading
O'ér the subaqueous heaven's fast waning blue;
Hére on this bánk we sat opposite the Niesen,
My

friend and I, that calm September evening,
Planning our joúrney for the following year
Up yónder Simmenthal to well loved Leman;
Bút to my friend, alas! no following year
Came ever; to his fatherland returned
An early grave received him, and for years
Long years thou 'st been to me a stranger, Thun!
And thy sweet, placid lake, and Simmenthal,
And well loved Leman. With the more delight
Albeít subdued, I myself changed meanwhile,
View from this well known bank the unchanged prospect,
Moúntain and lake, blue sky and star and moon,
And snów rosetínged by the same setting sunbeams.
Áh, that insensitive nature so should live
While every thing that feels so dies and changes !
Yet lét me not complain, for out of death,
Death only, comes new life, and if my youth's
And mánhood's friends lie in their sepulchres,
I 've here beside me sitting on this bank
The friend of my declining years, my daughter,
Sharing the toils and pleasures of my travel
And from me learning early to despise
The brilliancy of cities, and to seek
Léss on the horse's back and in the carriage
Than from the use pedestrian of her limbs
In daily journies over hill and valley
Bódily vigor; more the mind's adornment
In observation and comparison,
With her own eyes and ears and head and hands,
Of wonder-working Nature's ways and means,
Thán in the formal, cold accomplishments

Of fashionable boardingschool or college
Skilled to incúlcate fundamental errors
As fúndamental truths, and in the name
Of reason, vírtue and religion teach
Gróss superstítion, immorality,
And how to reason ill and falsely judge.
But fáded from the Jungfrau's highest snows
And Mönch's and Eigher's, day's last roseate tint;
The moón, grown yellower, 's sinking fast behind
The darkening Niesen; and no more a lone
Spángle of silver on gray Evening's brow
Shines Hésperus, but brightest of the bright
Diamonds that sparkle in Night's jewelled crown
Come come, my child, let 's hasten to the hamlet;
Mind well thy steps; the night 's dark, the way rocky:
Good night, sweet lake, we meet again tomorrow.

Walking from PETERZELL (CANTON ST. GALL, SWITZERLAND) by the Lakes of THE FOUR FOREST CANTONS, SARNEN, and THUN to FALKAU in the BLACK FOREST, BADEN; Sept. 16 to Octob. 7, 1854.

[graphic]

WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF CARDINAL MEZZOFANTI FAMED FOR

HAVING SPOKEN WITH FLUENCY TWENTY SEVEN LANGUAGES.

WHAT a wonder of wisdom, it has óften been said,
Mezzofánti with twenty seven tongues in one head!
Greater wonder of wisdom - I vow I don't móck
Mezzofánti with twenty seven kéys for one lock.

Walking from ARGENTHAL to SIMMERN (RHENISH PRUSSIA); Octob. 29, 1854.

ONCE on a time it happened as I was lounging in the Vaticán
I met an old friend of mine, a very leárned mán
“Now I could almost swear I know the very man you mean;
A shilling to a penny, it has Cardinal Mai been.”
Done! and you 've lost your bet for these weighty reasons two:
He 's neither learned nor a friend of mine, that pippin-hearted

Jew;
Unless you count it learning, to be perpetually men's ears

boring With his scouring of old book-shelves, and pálimpsest restoring, And unless you call it friendship that twice my hand he shook And kissed me on both cheeks, and took a present of my book; So much as this of his Eminence I learned three years ago, And more than this of his Eminence I don't desire to know. So to go back to where I was when you interrupted me: “I 'm heartily glad,” said I, “my good old friend to see; And are you very well ? and when did you come to Rome? And what is it brings you here? and how are all at home?” “I'm very well," said he, “and at home I left all well, And since yesterday I 'm here, and now please to me tell How things are going on here, and what 's the newest news With the Pope or the Consulta or your own sweet Irish Muse." As for my Muse,” said I – for I always put her first — “Of all places in the wide world Rome is for her the worst, For she 's always kept so busy here gazing round on every side With uplifted hands and open mouth and eyelids staring wide On painting, arch and statue, pillar, obelisk and dome And all the thousand wonders of ever wondrous Rome,

That I can't get one word out of her let me teaze her as I may
Except "Please let me alone, Sir," and "I 'll do no work today.”
And as for the Consulta, it doesn't consult with me,
And if it did I doubt me much 'twere long ere we 'd agree.
And then as to his Holiness, I hope you don't suppose”
And here I looked as wise as I could and clapped my finger

on my nose “Dear Sir, has anything happened or do you anything know?” “Not I indeed, my good friend, or I'd have told you long ago; But this much I can tell you and I doubt not but it 's true, And remember what I say now is strictly between me and you: This building here 's the Vatican, this city is called Rome – And mum about his Holiness until we both get home.”

Walking from Worms to KREUZNACH in RHENISA PRUSSIA, Oct. 27--28, 1854.

I wish I were that little mouse
Thát no rent pays for his house,
That neither sows nor reaps nor tills,
Bút his plúmp, round belly fills
With cheeseparings or a slice,
Léft on my pláte, of bacon nice.
Soón as spreád night's raven shades
And to béd are boys and maids
And silence the whole hoúse pervades,
Moúsey póps nose, whiskers out,
Sníffs the air and looks about
The coast is clear; right joyfully
Out on the carpet canters he
To take his pleasure all the night
And spórt about till morning light.
He has not on lazy groom to wait,
Coachman and équipage of state;

He has not to shave, brush, tie cravat,
Look for gloves, cane, cards and hat,
This countermánd and order that,
But álways ready dressed and trim,
And sleek and smooth, sound wind and limb,
Springs out light-heárt upon the floor,
Cápers from window to the door,
From door to window, many a race
Takes round the washboard and surbáse,
Nibbles the crúst I 've purposely
Dropped on the crumbcloth while at tea,
Climbs up the wainscot, and a swing
Ventures upon the béllpull ring;
Or scáles the leg of the escritoire,
Squeezes intó th' half open drawer,
Among the papers plays about
A minute or two, then scampers out,
And pást the inkstand as he goes
With súch a curl turns up his nose
As thorough - bred gentility shows
And that your moúsey 's too well born
Not to hold literature in scorn.
So happy moúsey sports away
The lívelong night till dáwning day,
And only then of slúmber thinks
When through the window-shutter chinks
Long streaks of light fall on the floor
And milk - pail clink at the hall door
Annoúnces man's return to toil,
Fresh care and sorrow, cark and coil,
And that anón into the room
Will búrst with sweeping-brush and broom
Dowdy Lisėtta, half awake,
Her fússy morning round to take,

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