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SOMETÍMES I 've with my Muse a miff,
Sometimes my Muse with me, You'd think we féll out just to have
The pleásure to agree.
Last night she came to my bedside
And twitched me on the ear: "Well, Miss," said I, turning about,
"What is it brings you here?”
“I 've come to sing you a new song,"
With a sweet smile she said, And on the táble laid her lamp
And sát down by my bed.
“This is no time to sing," said I
And túrned me round to sleep, “You woúld not trill one note all day,
Your song for mórning keep."
No word replied the deár sweet maid,
Nor taúnted me again,
And sáng so sweet a strain,
That tears came to mine eyes And sometimes scarce the words I heard
Fór mine own bursting sighs: —
“Chármer, sing on, sing ever on,
We 're once more friends," I cried; “A thousand years I'd not think long,
My sóngstress at my side.”.
I túrned about as thus I said,
But ló! the maid was gone,
În the dark night alone.
In vaín I watched the livelong night,
All dáy I 've watched in vain:
And here she comes again.
SWEET breathes the hawthorn in the early spring
Walking from ACHENKIRCHEN to SEEHAUS on the ACHENSEE, in the German TYROL, July 9, 1854.
KING Will his seat in royal state
Tákes on Thoughts ocean shore,
The waves but louder roar.
“Back back, audacious, rebel slaves,
How dare ye” – the king cries — “How dare ye come my person near?”
The waves but higher rise.
And first they drench his velvet shoes
And then they splash his knee;
An ángry man is hé.
“What meán ye, whát?” three times he cries,
“Thús to assault your lord; Ye shall be hanged up every one —”
The wáves hear never a word;
And óne comes souse and overturns
Him and his chair of state –
Before it is too late.
Then comes another, twice as big,
And rolls him up the shore, And sáys: — "Lie there, and call us slaves
And vássals never more.”
“Mínion,” faint gasping he 'd have cried
But ló! the wave was gone,
Another rolling on,
And breaks and flows over the king
As if no king were there,
“Enough! he's had enough,” cries loud
The fourth wave tumbling in;
To drówn him were a sin.
“Dówn to this shore, I promise you,
Unless he is a fool,
Thought's ócean waves to rule.”
“So bé it, so bé it,” they all reply,
And ébb and leave him there
And gáther up his chair.
Thát was the first day king Will claimed
Rúle over Thought's free waves,
He ever called them slaves.
Walking from TRYBERG to OBERWOLFach in the Black FOREST (BADEN), Octob. 9 — 11, 1854.
WELL, it is a dárling creature!
Són! I knew it - ówn Papa’s self,
Fié! no mátter - 't hás no sénse yet – Six weeks! why, I'd sáy six months old. Wipe its nóse - all 's right again now; Whát a sweet smile! whý, it 's an ángel.
Cóme come, don't frown, máster Bóbby -
Fié again! a spoonful fénnel;