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And not kept drawing still unwholesome draughts
Qút of Saint Básil's, Hilary's, Chrysostom's
And Áthanasius' duckmeat-mantled pools,
I doubt if in my heart I could have found it
To sáy, as now I say: Dante, go down.

Stand úp here, little finger; thou 'rt the pensive,
Délicate, gentle, nobleminded Schiller,
Ténder white - rose frostnipped in Weimar's garden
Ére it had raised its modest head above
Luxúriant Goethe's all too neighbouring shade.
Redundancy of words, enthusiasm,
Subjectiveness (youth's faults) are thy faults, Schiller!
Amiable weaknesses which every day
Of longer life had sobered, cúrtailed, cured
Diis aliter visum; so thou must go down.

Só, being a bóy, I used to count my fingers,
And só in manhood sometimes count them still
In 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.

“Whý 's a priest like a fingerpost, you dunce ?"
Said a schoolmáster 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 was a curious creature

Lived many years ago;
Don't ásk me what its name was,

For I myself don't know;

But 'twas a curious creature,

So délicately made
It could not bear the sunshine,

It scárce could bear the shade.

Its júdgment was deféctive,

Its mémory was weak, Until it was two years old

Not one word could it speak.

Capricious in its témper,

And gráve by fits, then gay, It séldom liked tomorrow

The thing it liked today.

When 't mét a little trouble

'Twould heáve a doleful sigh, Clásp its forepaws together

And loudly sob and cry;

And then when something pleased it

'Twould fall into a fit And work in such convúlsions

You'd think its sides would split With little taste for lábor,

And weary soon of rest,
It seemed álways in a púzzle

Which of the two was best.

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 fóld its arms and cry: "Donothing 's such a weáriness

I'd álmost rather die.”

As fóx or magpie clever,

And full of guile and art, Its chiefest study ever

Was hów to hide its heart;

And séldom through its features

Could you its thoughts discern, Or whát its feelings towards you

From words or manner learn.

Fierce, únrelenting, crúel,

Bloodshed was its delight;
To give pain, its chief pleasure

From morning until night;

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,
'Twould húnt them down for pástime,

And on their anguish gloat.

Of ímitative manners,

Ánd a baboon in shape,
Some naturalists will have it,

It was a kind of ape;

But I would not believe it

Though depósed to upon oath
Such calumnies to crédit

Wise men were ever loath;

And all the ancient récords

Unanimous declare
It was God's own legítimate

Líkeness and son and heir,

That for some seventy years should

Live wickedly, then die
And túrn into an angel

And flý up to the sky;

And there in the blue éther

With Gód for ever dwell,
Oft wondering how it came 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.


It happened as one summer day I walked
From Küssnacht round the Righi's foot to Schwyz,
Ánd had behind me left Tell’s Hollow Way
Ánd the green, sloping banks of Zug's clear lake,
That looking up I saw a gap in the clouds
And asking what had made it, was informed
'Twas left there by the fall of Rossberg mountain
Whose rúins strewed the valley at my feet.
Doubting, as usual, and incredulous,
Again I looked up, at and through the gap,
And sáw beyond it in the clear, blue ether
The figure of a man with open shírtneck,
Seáted and writing something upon papers
Which ever and anon down through the gap
He scattered to the ground. One near me fallen
I picked up, curious, and began to read;
But being no lover of non sequiturs
And Beggings 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 Rocking their Alpine brethren; filling up The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters, Damming the rivers with a sudden dash Which crushed the waters into mist, and made Their fountains find another channel thus, Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg.


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