"Et grato remeat securior ictu."

IN Róme's old days of glóry, when a citizen thought fit

A well desérving sláve, of free gráce, to mánumít,

He called the várlet tó him, and, bidding him steády stánd,

A smárt slap on the cheek dealt hím with open hánd,

And said: "Thy freedom take and with it mý last blów; Much good may they both do thee; there thou art free to gó."

That sight I never sáw; but I 've seen as cúrious sight
When it pleased a sóvereign prince to máke a bélted knight;
For he called the féllow tó him, and både him down to kneél,
And slapped him on the shoulder with the flát side of his steél,
And said: "Get úp, Sir knight, and aboút thy business gó,
And take with thee fór remembrance my lást and párting blów."
And úp the gallant knight got fróm his bénded knee
With the blow upón his shoulders, the pink of chivalrý;
For a prince is hónor's foúntain, only source of dignity,
And his blów chiválrous mákes, as the old Róman's blów
made freé.

And I'm sorry I wasn't bý, when, defying áll beliéf,
A British prínce a knight made out of a loín of beef:
"Get úp, Sir loin," he said, with a flát slap óf his knife,
And worthier knight made néver the good prince ín his life.
GOTHA, Octob. 14, 1855.

MUSINANDO.

POET.

O thou who all things here belów understandest,

From whóm Heaven hides nóthing, who seest into Chảos,

Far Limbo, dim Púrgat'ry, Tártarus deép,

Who delightest thy friends to instruct and enlighten,

Who never forgéttest and mák'st no mistakes,

Have I leave, in the Státe's name, O Múse, to put to thee Some few questions statístic concérning thyself?

Th' old sérpent crept back in the guise of a lámb;
But no matter, the Státe has a right to commánd me;
Proceed with thy business and lét me be góing.

POET.

First of all, with a view to idéntificátion,

The Státe asks thy náme.

MUSE.

Asks my náme! let me think

Eutérpe, Melpomene, Érato, Clio,
Terpsichore, Polýmnia, Uránia, Thalía,
Aéde, Calliope, Mélite, Mnéme

Choose which thou lik'st best

one 's as good as another

Perhaps nóne quite corréct, but I answer to áll.

POET.

That's the first point disposed of. Now, what's thy relígion?

MUSE.

Like the Státe's, it depends upon tíme, place and fáshion; Long Págan, then Christian; Mahómmedan néver,

Never Mormon or Jewish, though with time 'tmay be either.

POET.

That's the second point settled. Now, where wert thou bórn?

MUSE.

In Beótia my foés say, my friends say in Heaven;
My own mémory though lóng doesn't go quite so far.

Then thou 'rt óld?

POET.

MUSE.

Why perhaps I don't knów I'm not súre Can't one have a good mémory without being old? Must the State know a lady's age júst to an hoúr? No; I'll not be cross-questioned

I 've never been used

to it

And thou too, Mr. Poet, to make thyself párty!
Whither 's gallantry, chivalry, courtesy fléd?
It's the fron Age cóme back

-

Et tú, Brute, tú!

Fare thee well; happy live; serve the Státe; keep progréssing Like the blind grinding horse that thinks góing round 's

She's gone

MUSE.

Farewell! we are two.

POET.

I'll go after but whére shall I find her?

Whither túrn to look fór her? her dómicile whére?

Fool! that might'st to that question have hád her own answer

Hadst thou deált but a little more gingerly with her

And not touched her áge till thou 'dst leárned her abóde As it stands in the schédule: ABÓDE-CALLING ÁGE

Wise schedule! well, help there was never for spilled milk; So patience, as Máro says, "Ét vosmet rébus

Serváte secúndis;" i. e. in plain prose:

The dear girl when she comes next perhaps may be sófter

I'll depend on thee, Máro, for whó ever bétter
Than Máro the maid knew, or questioned her clóser,
Or gót her to tell more, or wórse kept her sécrets?
Not quite fair not quite faír — thou 'st been scúrvily treated,
Poor Múse, I must ówn; and if thou but cóm'st back
And talk'st kindly with me, and this once forgiv'st me,
I swear by Parnássus I'll never to mórtal

One syllable útter of áll that has happened,

Or ask thee from henceforth one pérsonal question;
Let the Státe, if it will, do its own shabby business,
Or some one, more fitted than Í, find, to dó it;
I'll be none of its pímp See! I teár up the schedule
There she comes! welcome back! that 's my own darling girl!
So byegones are byegones, and once more we 're friends.

CARLSRUHE, Nov. 26, 1855.

THE ASTRONOMERS.

Ir chanced as I pássed by my bárn one fine évening
Few barns have so spléndid a view to the West
I saw, side by side on the hálf-door perched cózy,
My cóck and my hén and a six-weeks-old chicken.

As I stood looking at them, and they at the súnset
That was painting with góld me and them and the bárn,
Says the hén in reply to a question the chicken
Had júst put: "I'll tell you, my dear, all about it:

"The sun sets in the West; then beneath the round earth

Goes across to the East and there rises again;

His rising makes day and his setting makes night,
And so he goes círcling for ever and ever."

"No, Mamma," said the chicken, "just hear me explaín it:
The sun when he sets stops a short while to rest him,
Then túrns, and goes straight back the same way he cáme,
But you can't see him góing the night is so dárk,
And so he goes pósting, like mail coach or steám train,
To and fro on the same line for éver and ever."

"You 're both foóls," said the cóck, "not one inch the sun búdges,

But the earth on itself keeps round túrning incéssant,
Like a little boy's top or an old housewife's spindle;
The side that turns tówards the sun thinks the sun rises,
The side that turns fróm the sun thinks the sun séts,
And so it goes twirling in sunshine and shadow,
And twirls us all with it for éver and éver."

As he spoke the sun sét and they broke up the council,
And up to their roósts flew, one áfter another,
And I in to teá went, and told the whole stóry,
But no one believed me all said I was jóking,
And only the more laughed the more I protésted,
Till at last I took húff and went up to roost too;
And my cóck from that day forth they called Galiléo,
My chickens the Cónclave, my old hen the Pópe.

Walking from HERRENBERG to CALW (WÜRTTEMBERG), Nov. 3, 1855.

WELL to get through this world there's one receipt: Kindly the Bitter táke, cautious the Sweet.

GOTHA, Oct. 11, 1855.