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“There he is, my nóblest, best work;
Táke him, do your pleásure with him.
After all perháps I 'll find some
Meáns to pátch my bróken saucer.

“Nów begóne! don't let me see you
Hére again till í send fór you;
Í 'm tired working, and intend to
Rést my weáry bónes tomorrow.”

Só God láy late on the next day
Ánd the whole day long did nothing
Bút refléct upon his ill luck
Ánd the great spite of the angels.

And he said: - "Becaúse I 've résted
Áll this séventh day, ánd done nothing,
Eách seventh day shall be kept hóly
Ánd a day of rést for éver.”

And as God said and commanded
Só it is now, and still shall be:
Áll hard work done on the seventh day,
Tó the first day áll respect shown.


DIRE Ambition úp hill toiling,
Straining every nerve and sinew,
Sweating, pánting, táking nó rest,
Dire Ambítion, listen to me.

Highest climbers get the worst falls,
Ón the hill - top stórms blow fiércest,
Lightning oftenest strikes the súmmits,
Dire Ambition, túrn and come down.

in the valley here it is sheltered,
Eásy, safe and súre and pleasant;
Ón those steep heights there's scarce footing,
Í grow dízzy to look at thee.

Higher still thou climb’st and higher,
Léndest nó ear, look'st not once down;
Almost in the cloúds I see thee,
Fár above the reach of my words.

Fáre thee wéll then ónly fáll not -
And as háppy bé above there,
ff thou canst, as Í belów here
In the cálm, sequéstered válley.



Ívy leás, come, I will praise thee,
Júst because thou 'rt únpretending
And hast seldom hád the fortune
Tó be praised as thoú desérvest.

Summer's variegated, gáy leaves,
Frightened at th' approach of winter,
Lóng agó have fled and left me
Tó thy néver- failing shelter.

On this bleák Novémber morning
In thou peépest át my window
With as kindly, friendly greeting
Ás though we were still in Júly.

Yesterday I asked the rédbreast
Thát from yonder báre spray cárols: -
“Whére, my pretty sérenáder,
Ón these cold nights findest shélter?”

“In the ívy,” ánswered Róbin,
“Únderneath your bedroom window,
Néstling cózy, Í care little
Fór the bleák nights of November.”

Conquering Bacchus, from the Indies
Driving in triúmphal cháriot,
Twined his Thýrsus, crówned his temples,
With thy green branch and black bérries.

From that dáy down to the present,
Round the wine cup and the tánkard
Wind harmóniously together
Clústering grápe, and ivy bránches.

Cleárer, sweeter fár the hóney
Í've each mórning at my breakfast
Thán the honey the Athenians
Brought from Hýbla ánd Hyméttus;

Why? because all the long summer
My bees riot in thy blossoms,
And who ever heard of ívy
Ón Mount Hýbla ór Hyméttus ?

When I 'm dead and o'ér my ashes
Ríses the cold marble column,
Shroúd it, ívy, with thy green leaves;
All too late the páltry tribute.

Walking from FONTAINE L’EVEQUE to BASÉCLES, HAINAULT (BELGIUM); Nov. 12–13, 1854.

Why paint Deáth the king of térrors ?
Whó so quiet, calm and peaceful ?
Whó so húmble? whó so lovely?
Whó a kinder friend to mán is?

Whý hung roúnd with black the chamber?
Whý those sád looks, síghs and sóbbings?
Tósses on this coúch a féver?
Heaves this breast with anxious throbbings?

Ón these cheeks there glóws no ánger,
Ón these pále lips wríthes no ánguish;
Cáre this brów no longer wrinkles,
From these líds no tears are starting;

Foolish moúrners, fór yourselves weep,
Who have still with Life to struggle,
Lífe the treacherous, únrelenting,
Crúel king of pains and térrors.


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