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“Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam illius meminisse!”

IT's true to the letter:
A thousand times better
The mere recollection
Of that piece of perfection,
One sweet, melting thought
From that sepulchre brought,
Than society's joys
With their hubbub and noise -
Yet I 'm not quite so sure
I wouldn't ráther endure,

If I had my selection,
Even the hubbub and noise
Of society's joys,
Than be laid side by side,
Were the coffin so wide,

With that piece of perfection.

ROSAMOND, RATHGAR Road, Dublin, March 18, 1859.


What a fine critic, had he learned to write,
Snap would have made! he can both bark and bite,
And, as to understanding the belles lettres,
Show me the “We” that understands them better.

ROSAMOND, Oct. 1, 1859.

SLEEP is a froward child who when you will,
Will nót, and when you will not, will, perverse.
Make much of him and coax him, and you only
Make him more wilful; force him, he rebels,
Or runs away and in some dárk hole hides;
But leave him to himself, he comes, at last,
And jumps upon your lap, and flings his arms
About your neck, and smothers you with kisses,
And covers your two eyes with both his hands,
And asks you what you see, and, when you say
"Houses and ships and trees and men and horses,"
Chuckles, and says: - “They 're mine, and if you 're good
And let my hands stay always on your eyes,
I'll give them to you to be yours for ever;
But if you 're bold and push my hands away,
I 'll take them all and put them in my pocket
And keep them for a fellow I like better,”
And, with the word, down from your lap the imp
Jumps nimble, and runs off, and from the room's
Furthermost corner cries: “ "Bo-peep! come, catch me.”

ROSAMOND, March 20, 1859.


DESPISE me not because I am an egg,
A plain, unostentatious, simple oval:
Ómnia ex mé; and birds, beasts, reptiles, fishes,
Whatever in its nostrils has life's breath,
Even thou thyself I care not who thou art
And every tree that grows, and flower that blows,
All, all are brothers of the Dioscuri.

ROSAMOND, Febr. 14, 1860.

"Wer das Dichten will verstehen,
Muss in's Land der Dichtung gehen;
Wer den Dichter will verstehen,
Muss in Dichters Lande gehen."

“POETRY to understand,
Gó into the poet's land.”
Só says Göthe, but I say
There was never but one way

Fie upon your "poet's land"! -
Poetry to understand,
And that one way 's

áll things show it
To be born, like him, a poet.

ROSAMOND, November 19, 1859.

WE, though a little word of two short letters,
A most important word is, and ambiguous;
Sometimes it means those personages mighty,
The speaker, active, and the passive hearer,
Taken apart, distinguished from mankind.
Sometimes it means the author and his reader,
Pair never without honor to be mentioned,
By me, at least, who in myself comprise,
Not seldom, both the units of this dual,
Writing what no one reads except myself.
In olden time it was à royal word,
This little We, and, ungrammatical,
Took on it to express the Lord's anointed,
The DEI-GRATIA DUX, the great bell - wedder.
Those were the glorious days of pigmy We,
Too happy to last long, for minor folk, -
Following as minor folk åre apt to do
The bad example set them by their betters,
Weed and re-weed and weed again, audacious
And at nought setting decency no less
Than grammar. Whereat kings and queens, incensed
And with disgust filled, cast the plural off
And left it there, to be thenceforth for ever
The representative pronominal
Of editors, reviewers, costermongers,

Tailors and grocers, and hoc genus omne
Of varlets, and to unsophisticated,
Plain, simple I, in royal sulk, returned;
And I, this moment, our most gracious Queen
Victoria writes herself; I, to her lords
And gentlemen in parliament assembled,
Herself addresses. Long may she so write,
Long so address herself — God save the Queen!
Prays I, in duty bound and in good grammar.




I PITY thee, Prometheus; wise and wretched.

That wisdom 's wretchedness, I know too late;
But art thou happy, Io, without wisdom?

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Alas! th' unhappiest of mankind is Io.


More than thou pitiest me I pity thee
Who neither wisdom hast nor happiness.


Elél-eleú! elél-elél-eleú!

PROMETHEUS. Now, Jove, thy worst; not even thy worst can make me More wretched than, with all thy favor, Io.


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