"There he is, my nóblest, best work; Take him, do your pleasure with him. Áfter áll perhaps I'll find some Meáns to pátch my broken saúcer.
"Nów begóne! don't lét me see you Hére agaín till í send for you; Í 'm tired working, ánd inténd to Rést my weáry bónes tomorrow."
Só God lay late on the next day Ánd the whole day lóng did nothing Bút refléct upón his ill luck Ánd the great spite of the ángels.
Ánd he said: - "Because I 've résted Áll this seventh day, and done nothing, Eách seventh day shall be kept hóly Ánd a dáy of rést for éver.”
And as Gód said and commanded
Só it is now, and still sháll be:
Áll hard work done on the seventh day, To the first day áll respéct shown.
DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND), Jan. 21, 1855.
DÍRE Ambition úp hill toíling, Straining évery nerve and sínew, Sweating, pánting, táking nó rest, Dire Ambition, listen tó me.
Highest climbers gét the worst falls, Ón the hill-top stórms blow fiercest, Lightning óftenest strikes the súmmits, Díre Ambition, túrn and cóme down.
Ín the valley hére it 's sheltered, Eásy, safe and súre and pleasant;
Ón those steép heights thére 's scarce foóting,
Higher still thou clímb'st and higher, Léndest nó ear, loók'st not once down; Álmost in the cloúds I seé thee, Fár above the reách of my words.
Fare thee well then only fáll not And as happy bé above there, If thou canst, as Í belów here
Ín the cálm, sequéstered válley.
DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND), April 4, 1855.
Ívy leáf, come, I will praise thee,
Júst because thou 'rt únpreténding Ánd hast seldom hád the fortune Tó be praised as thoú desérvest.
Summer’s váriegated, gáy leaves, Frightened át th' approach of winter, Lóng agó have fléd and left me Tó thy néver-failing shelter.
Ón this bleák Novémber mórning Ín thou peépest át my window With as kindly, friendly greéting Ás though we were still in Júly.
Yesterday I asked the rédbreast Thát from yónder báre spray cárols: "Whére, my prétty sérenáder,
Ón these cold nights findest shélter?"
"Ín the ivy," answered Róbin, "Underneath your bedroom window, Néstling cózy, Í care little
Fór the bleák nights of Novémber."
Cónquering Bácchus, fróm the Indies Driving in triúmphal cháriot,
Twined his Thýrsus, crówned his témples, With thy green branch and black bérries.
From that day down to the présent, Round the wine cup and the tánkard Wind harmóniously together Clústering grape, and ívy bránches.
Clearer, sweéter fár the honey Í 've each mórning át my breakfast Than the honey the Athénians
Brought from Hýbla ánd Hyméttus;
Why? because all the long summer Mý bees riot in thy blossoms, And who éver heard of ivy
Ón Mount Hýbla ór Hyméttus?
When I'm dead and o'ér my ashes
Ríses thé cold márble cólumn,
Shroúd it, ivy, with thy green leaves;
All too late the paltry tribute.
Walking from FONTAINE L'EVEQUE to BASÉCLES, HAINAULT (BELGIUM); Nov. 12-13, 1854.
WHY paint Death the king of térrors?
Whó so quiet, cálm and peaceful? Whó so húmble? whó so lovely? Whó a kinder friend to mán is?
Why hung round with bláck the chámber? Why those sád looks, sighs and sobbings? Tósses ón this coúch a féver?
Heáves this breast with ánxious thróbbings?
Ón these cheeks there glóws no ánger, Ón these pále lips writhes no ánguish; Cáre this brów no longer wrinkles, From these lids no teárs are starting;
Foolish moúrners, fór yoursélves weep, Who have still with Life to struggle, Life the treacherous, únrelénting, Crúel king of paíns and térrors.
DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND); April 2, 1855.
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