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"Eam moriens praecepit incendi."
THOU didst well, Maro, to decree
With thy last breath, that burned should be
The Eneid, every line;
Not that unworthy it to live,
But that unworthy we to receive
The gift almost divine.
[Walking from BICHELSEE to ESCHLIKON in CANTON THURGAU, July 11, 1862.]
THE art of speaking 's not, to speak the truth,
It 's no great harm that right be on your side,
Woe to you! woe! and woe again! vae victis!
[Walking from LÜTISBURG to GOSSAU, in the CANTON ST. GALLEN, July 12, 1862.]
"SOME music 's bad, some music 's good,
But there's no music is not rude;"
To my own Mary Ann I said,
Charmer of my heart and head,
As at a friend's we sipped our tea,
It is, I doubt not, very fine;
Air, voice, and instrument, divine;
Not one word dare, until she has done:
Come, Patience, to thy votary's aid
What a fine piece! - now that it's played."
[Walking from HILLESHEIM to LOSHEIM in the EIFEL, Aug. 20-21, 1862.]
LIFE is a duty, not a privilege;
A cup which must be drained, taste how it will; A road which, rough or smooth, one has to travel. Lament not, therefore, the approach of death, But rejoice, rather, that the cup is drunk, The road come to an end, discharged the duty. Still thou lamentest? ah! thy life has been A sweet cup, pleasant road, and grateful duty. [ROSAMOND, RATHGAR ROAD, DUBLIN, June 15, 1860.]. .
MINE eye lights never on a bearded fop,
And little mindedness and valorous seeming,
But I bethink me of the ditch-side weed
Which makes so great show with its yellow flower
And tall rank stalk in seed, and lion's fangs,
But in whose veins, instead of lion's blood,
Runs a weak, milky, and ignoble ichor,
And all whose ways are groveling and lowly,
And Piscialletto whose appropriate name.
[ROSAMOND, RAthgar Road, DuBLIN, April 3, 1863.]
Now though it 's only one tail more
A cat has thrée tails, I have proved;
[ROSAMOND, Dec. 18, 1863.]
HOPE AND MEMORY.
SHORTER, like the morning shadow,
[TICKNOCK (CO. DUBLIN), Dec. 18, 1863.]
KNOWLEDGE is nought, for whether thou know'st much, Or whether little, thou must bow to Fashion;
Nay, less than nought, for he who knows the most, Has most his nose wrung by the reigning Fashion. [Walking from ROSAMOND to DALKEY, Nov. 30, 1862.]
My old grandfather sported a very old wig;
And his nose went drip-drop, like the spout at the shed,
And no one who saw him but thought he would die,