WHY so shy of death, sweet infant? Death ’s but one long, lásting hush-6, Ánd the gráve a deep, deep crádle Húng with black cloth and white linen.

"I'm not tired yet of my córals,
Cándy, cakes, and milk and honey;
In the gráve Mammá won't pét me,
Nór Papá bring mé new play-things."

Joyous stripling, whý so shún death?
Death 's no crábbed, soúr precéptor,
Wakes thee nót of early mornings;
Ín the grave ’s one lóng vacátion.

"In the gráve 's one lóng vacátion,
Bút no díce, no bówls, no ténnis;
Deáth toasts néver in Champagne wine
Lizzy's love or Bella's beaúty."

Mán of ripe years, whý so dread death? Ín the gráve there 's nó more trouble, Death keeps wátch and léts not enter Pain or loss or fear or sorrow.

"In the gráve there is no trouble,
Bút there 's álso nó enjoyment,

Death keeps wátch and léts not enter
Pleasure, prófit, hópe or hónor."

Feéble, tottering, weáry old man,
Why from Death's kind help recoil so?
Seé! he spreads a sóft couch for thee;
Cást thy staff away and lié down.

"Gládly would I Death's kind hand take,
Ánd upón his sóft couch stretch me,
Did no démons roúnd it hóver,

Did no nightmares its sleep trouble."

Démons, nightmares haúnt not that bed,
Soúnd its sleep, sound, soúnd and dreámless;
Lay thine head down on the pillow,

Close thine eyes now, and all 's óver.

Walking from SUHL, in the THURINGIAN FOREST, to OHRDRUFF; Oct. 4, 1855.

ACÚTE, obsérvant, witty and profound,

Goethe, the worldly wise, dwells in my brain ;
Bút to my heart of hearts, with all thy faults,
I take thee, géntle, noble-minded Schiller,
And with thee moúrn, not mock, humanity.

Walking from LUDWIGSBURG to BEILSTEIN (WÜRTTEMBERG); Sept. 2, 1855.

"TÉLL me, Quintus," once said Virgil,
Ás he walked in Róme with Hórace,
"Whát think'st thou of my Enéis?
Who can judge so well as Quintus ?"

"Fór the complimént I thánk thee,
Though I own I scárce desérve it,
Cléver Públius," ánswered Hórace;
"Thou shalt heár my plaín opinion:

"Thine Enéis is a great work,
Worthy mátch of Grécia's greatest,
Round the Róman Hómer's témples
Binds a wreath of baý perénnial.

"Wider than of Róman Eagle
Shall the flight be of Rome's Épos,
Viéwed with wónder bý unbórn tribes
Óf all climates tongues and colors."

"With the future," answered Virgil,
"Let it bé as Jóve and Fáte will;
Ít 's enough for mé, my Quintus,
Tó have pleased the Róman Pindar."

OHRDRUFF, near GOTHA; Oct. 4, 1855.

ÁSK

me not what her name was it's small måtter

w

alle but ask me what herself was,

Ánd my whole béing, búrsting into teárs,

Ánswers: "She wás"

good Gód! and is't she wás?

WEINSBERG (WÜRTTEMBERG); Sept. 4, 1855.

SHE never in her whole life wrote one stánza,
She knew no Greék, no Látin, scarcely French,
She played not, dánced not, sáng not, yet when Death
His árms about her thréw, to teár her fróm me,
I would have ránsomed her, not Orpheus-like
With mine own song alone, but with all song,
Músic and dance, philosophy and learning
Were ever, or to bé were, in the world.

GOTHA, Oct. 12, 1855.

THEY say I'm óf a Propaganda school

And would have áll men measure by my rule,
Ánd they say trué, perhaps; but then the rule,

I'd have them measure by, is: THERE'S NO RULE.
Würzburg (BavARIA), Sept. 29, 1855.

ÍNTO

two classes áll men Í divíde,

The oppressed on this, the oppressors on that, síde; Lét them change námes and places as they will, Oppressors and oppressed I find them still.

Walking from SUHL to OBERNHOF in the THURINGIAN FOREST; Oct. 4, 1855.

IN FRÄULEIN JULIE FINCKH'S ALBUM.

HEILBRONN, SEPT. 19, 1855.

PLEASANT it is to journey on and on,

Obsérving still new lands and peoples strange,
But far more pleasant on a spot to light

Which with so friendly courtesy receives us,

Thát we stop short and say:

"Why one step further?"