THE Don, he has bestrode his steed, His squire, he rides behind him; They're on the road for Lombardie, To tilt against a windmill. Four stout, strong arms the windmill has, "We had best go back," Don Quixote cries; "This giant is a strong one; How hard he hits about the head! My 'notion' was a wrong one." "Mirror of knighthood! right and wrong "Not now, not now," the knight replies; "My lance, see how it 's shattered, And, though my spirit 's fresh and strong, The flesh feels sore and battered." So home they went, both knight and squire, Tired, dusty, crowned with glory. The windmill's tórn sails, to this day, The truth vouch of my story. And in memorial, fair to see, Have written on a táll post: "La Mancha's knight and squire slew here A mighty giant, álmost." ROSAMOND, March 12, 1860. WIND, WOMAN AND KING. WIND, woman and king, But throw their arms round Whoso nearest is found. And the fool he sang true, For I have not heard from you Now for more than a year, My Mary Anne dear, And that year seems an ever And from the king never, And as for Sir Wind, And makes a great rout And March and April, And am sitting here still In the sweet Month of May, He went post day and night, Even one odd time to stop, And in on me pop FORGET the past, fear not the morrow, Enjoy today For things will go I do what thou will GREEN HILLS (Co. Dublin), April 28, 1860. "Gott nur siehet das Herz." SCHILLER. ONLY God sees the heart. True, of all hearts Except thine own, ingenuous, well loved Schiller! Who nothing hast to hide, and hidest nothing, And God and Man alike see through and through. ROSAMOND, March 16, 1860. I KNOW some wiseacres who think, Are worth the whole of their five old things. ROSAMOND, March 24, 1860. THE lamp no light shows, when I'm far Away from thee; The fire no heat throws, when I'm far Away from thee; The sun shines clouded, when I'm far The moon 's not risen yet, when I'm far Heavy my heart weighs, when I'm far A blank the world lies, when I'm far Away from thee; Spring flowers droop withered, when I 'm far Away from thee; The lark a dirge sings, when I'm far Away from thee; Time's tread 's a déad march, when I 'm far But be thou merry, though thou 'rt far Away from me; |