And not kept drawing still unwholesome draughts I doubt if in my heart I could have found it Stand up here, little finger; thou 'rt the pensive, Ténder white-rose frostnípped in Weimar's garden Luxúriant Goethe's all too neighbouring shade. Redundancy of words, enthusiasm, Subjectiveness (youth's faults) are thý faults, Schiller! Of longer life had sobered, cúrtailed, cured Diis aliter visum; so thou must go down. Só, being a boy, I used to count my fingers, And so in manhood sometimes count them still Ín the late gloaming or the early morn Or when I sleepless lie at deep midnight. Walking from SANCT ANTON on the ADLERBERG (German TYROL) to TEUFEN in Canton APPENZELL, Sept. 6-10, 1854. "WHY 's a priest like a fingerpost, you dunce?" Said a schoolmaster to his pupil once; "I think I know," replied the roguish elf; "He points the way, but never goes himself." Walking from UNTERBRUCK to Kreutzstrassen near MUNICH, July 4, 1854. THERE wás a curious creáture Lived many years ago; Don't ask me what its name was, But 'twás a curious creáture, It could not bear the sunshine, It scárce could bear the shade. Its judgment was defective, Until it was two years old Not one word could it speak. Capricious in its témper, And gráve by fits, then gay, It seldom liked tomorrow The thing it liked today. When 't mét a little trouble "Twould heave a doleful sigh, Clasp its forepaws together And loúdly sob and cry; And then when something pleased it "Twould fall into a fit And work in such convulsions You'd think its sides would split With little taste for lábor, So after a while's lábor It would sit down and say: "This lábor is a killing thing, I'll work no more today." Then after a while's sitting "Twould fold its arms and cry: "Donóthing 's such a weariness I'd almost rather die." As fóx or magpie clever, And full of guile and art, Its chiéfest study ever Was hów to hide its heart; And séldom through its feátures Could you its thoughts discern, Or what its feelings towards you From words or manner learn. Fierce, únrelenting, cruel, To give pain, its chief pleasure All kinds of beasts, birds, fishes, "Twould fall upon and kill, And not even its own like spare, Its húngry maw to fill; And when it could no more eat But was stuffed up to the throat, That fór some seventy years should Live wickedly, then die And túrn into an ángel And fly up to the sky; And there in the blue éther With God for ever dwell, Oft wondering how it cáme there When 't should have been in hell. Begun at ARCO in the Italian TYROL, Aug. 24, 1854; finished while walking from CAMPIGLIO across the VAL DI NON and over the PALLADE to SPONDINI at the foot of the ORTELER, Aug. 29 to Sept. 2, 1854. THE GAP IN THE CLOUDS.* Ir happened as one summer day I walked But being no lover of non sequiturs And Béggings of the Argument and mean And vúlgar thoughts dressed up in melodrame, *Mountains have fallen Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters, Damming the rivers with a sudden dash thus, Which crushed the waters into mist, and made BYRON. |