I WALKED, in the sun, by the side of a wood,

Where the butterflies round me fluttered,

And the woodbine her purple buds spread to the warmth, And the throstle his spring greeting uttered.

I laid myself down on the dry, mossy bank,
By the silver pine's graceful boughs shaded,
And gázed on the blúe heaven until the sun set,
And the light from the landscape faded.

And my daughter beside me lay on the bank,
And a tear in her young eye glistened,
For she 's dead and gone, long dead and gone,
That with ús to the throstle once listened.

So I kissed the tear from her daughter's eye,
The tear for the dead that glistened,
And we rose, and left that dry, mossy bank,
And no more to the throstle listened.

In the HARDTWALD, beside CARLSRUHE; March 9, 1856.

And let the poet keep from courts,
And walk erect and free,

His hand lay sometimes on the breast,
But never bend the knce.

When such a poet comes to die,

He bids you shed no tear;

The grave takes but his mortal part,
His whole bright soul stays here.

No animated bronze to him,

No sculptured marble raise;

His name is written in your hearts,
What needs he other praise?

CARLSRUHE, March 11, 1856.

AT the kernel to get, thou must first break the shell;
So ere thou the shell break, consider it well;

For bad if the kernel, and broken the shell,
Thou 'rt a fool for thy pains so consider it well.

CARLSRUHE, May 13, 1856.

--

NEVER spider span so fine
As I spin this web of mine,
Tó be swept out of the room,
By the pope's-head or the broom,
Early let it come or late,

Bóth the web's and spider's fate.

CARLSRUHE, March 2, 1856.

MY Polly is a paladin

Without reproach or fear,

Her scissors are her two-edged sword,
Her needle is her spear.

Her cuirass is of whalebone stout,
Her helm 's her platted hair;

She loves to go with visor up
And neck and shoulders bare.

Her pincushion 's her armoury;

Her housewife, page and groom;

Her foes are every mother's son
Of spinning-wheel and loom.

Upon her finger when she has braced
Her burnished, silver shield,
"For gussets and for gores!" she cries,
And rushes to the field.

God pity then the cotton breadth,
Or silk, comes in her way!
The sweepings-up, at night, declare

The carnage of the day.

There's many a valiant knight inscribed

Upon the roll of fame,

In letters that outshine them all,

I'll write my Polly's name.

CARLSRUHE, May 6, 1856.

IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

I WISH there were no albums! not one pen

In the whole, wide world! "What wouldst thou háve in it,

then?"

Why, laugh and chat, and song and dance and glee,
And half a dozen friends, and thee and me.

CARLSRUHE, April 4, 1856.

"Adulescens, tametsi properas, te hoc saxum rogat,
Uti ad se aspicias, deinde, quod scriptum est legas.
Hic sunt poetae Pacuvi Marci sita

Ossa. Hoc volebam, nescius ne esses. Vale."

M. PACUVIUS, Burm. Anthol. Ed. Meyer, No. 24.

AND now I know thy bones lie here, vain poet,
What am I better? do they smell sweet? taste sweet?
Shine bright like gold, or feel, like velvet, soft?

Must I be stopped upon my way, to hear

That which to hear serves mé not, nor to tell
Serves thee? Farewell! thou restless even in death.

CARLSRUHE, May 19, 1856.