I

IV.

WORK as long as Sol 's in the sky;
When Sol's to bed, to bed go I.

PUNCTUAL I rise with every morning sun,

Punctual I set when my day's work is done
And Eos puts her evening mantle on.

[Walking from PINO near TURIN to VILLA NOVA, Sept. 18, 1864.]

Visiting the tomb of Beato Angelico, in the church of

Santa Maria sopra Minerva, Rome, 1865.

WITH reverence tread; these are no vulgar stones;
Frate Giovanni here has laid his bones:
HIC JACET FRA GIOVAN DA FIESOLE.

If ever painter painted heaven, 'twas he;
If ever painter's spirit went to heaven,
Da Fiesole's went, all trespasses forgiven.
So, if in heaven there 's painting, heaven beware
This earth of ours be not so passing fair
Painted, that angels discontented grow

With heaven itself, and yearn for things below.

SEE where in broad array the Wheaten host
Covers the field, each warrior at his post.
The same determined will pervades them all,
For home and fatherland to stand or fall;
Shrivel shall the heavens, the sun shall close his eye,
Ere from his post one stout Wheat heart shall fly.
Gare! gare! for yonder in the sunbeams glance
Bright weapons, and the Reaper troops advance.
"Forward!" 's the word, and, with their curved swords, low
Cutting beneath the knee, they charge the foe.
Prostrate the best of Wheaten Land are laid,
Ere set in rest a spear, or drawn a blade.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" the conquering Reapers cry.
There's nothing for the brave, left, but to die.
Vae victis! still, whoe'er the victi be,

Broad Wheatland's sons or Rome's best chivalry;

Nor ever gospel truer than the word

By Brennus preached and Brennus' conquering sword. [Walking from BIBIENA Over the CONSUMA to PONTASSIEVE near FLORENCE, July 4, 1865.]

CATCH

FOR A PARTY OF TOURISTS

DISAPPOINTED OF BEDS IN THE INN OF

BELVEDERE, IN THE PASS BETWEEN LA VALTELLINA AND VAL CAMONICA, AND DRINKING TILL A LATE HOUR IN THE ARBOUR IN FRONT OF THE INN.

THEY 'll not let us in, they vow and swear;
Ah! little they know, how little we care;
Our sleep will be sweeter here in the fresh air,
And every one of us will have to spare

What his bed would have cost, a fiorino or pair;

So push the bottle round, boys,
Take pleasure where it 's found, boys,
Let mirth and song resound, boys,
And Care in wine be drowned, boys,
And Joy our king be crowned, boys,

Then where most flowers abound, boys,
At ease stretched on the ground, boys,
We'll sleep till morning, sound, boys,
So push the bottle round, boys,
So push the bottle round, boys.

POET'S verse, I've heard it said,
By the file is polished.

Pshaw! the file does but make rough
Scrapes and scratches the best stuff.
Nothing poet's verse so well

Polishes as poet's knell:

"Ding dong bell. The poet's dead!"
Poet's verse is polished.

[CHRISTIANSTRASSE, DRESDEN, Dec. 24, 1865.]

HAPPY the man who sees the world

As it neither was nor is

Nor ever shall be! optimist

High honored name is his.

But who the world sees as it is
And was and still shall be

What name is bad enough for him?

Vile pessimist is he.

[STRUVESTRASSE, DRESDEN, Jan. 19, 1866.]

Yet come not near, sweet ladies dear,
If you'd not burn your clothes;
See how the sparks fly from the quid
Sticks out below my nose.

I vow and swear I take all care
To save your crinolines,

But sparks will fly, and fire will burn,
Were ye all sceptered queens.

The smell is not of violets,

I never will deny,

And delicate olfactories

Will do well to fight shy,