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And not kept drawing still unwholesome draughts
Stand úp here, little finger; thou 'rt the pensive,
Ténder white-rose frostnipped in Weimar's garden
Só, being a bóy, I used to count my fingers,
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?"
"He points the way, but never goes himself.” Walking from UNTERBRUCK to KREUTZSTRASSEN near MUNICH, July 4, 1854.
Lived many years ago ;
For I myself don't know;
But 'twas a curious creature,
So délicately made
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 troúble
'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,
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 seldom through its feátures
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 mórning úntil 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,
And on their anguish gloat.
But Í would not believe it
Though depósed to upon oath -
Wise men were ever loath;
And all the ancient récords
Líkeness and son and heir,
That for some seventy years should
Live wickedly, then die
And flý up to the sky;
And there in the blue éther
With God for ever dwell,
When 't shoúld 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. *
It happened as one summer day I walked
* 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.