SOMETIMES I 've with my Muse a miff, Sometimes my Muse with me, You'd think we féll out just to have Last night she came to my bedside "I've come to sing you a new song," And on the táble laid her lamp "This is no time to sing," said I No word replied the deár sweet maid, But géntly laid her hand on mine So ténder, melancholy, soft, That tears came to mine eyes And sometimes scarce the words I heard Fór mine own bursting sighs: "Chármer, sing on, sing éver 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, Had taken her lamp and left me there In vain I watched the livelong night, All day I 've watched in vain: But stay aye, that 's her own dear voice, And here she comes again. Walking from OPPENAU to BEUERN (BADEN), Octob. 12-13, 1854. SWEET breathes the hawthorn in the early spring Plain, rústic, unpretending, bláck eyed bean. Walking from ACHENKIRCHEN to SEEHAUS on the ACHENSEE, in the German TYROL, July 9, 1854. KING Will his seat in royal state Takes on Thought's ocean shore, "Back báck, 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 The king's cheeks grow with choler red, "What mean ye, what?" three times he cries, "Thús to assault your lord; Ye shall be hanged up every one The waves hear never a word; And óne comes souse and overturns Him and his chair of state - Make háste, good king, and save yourself Before it is too late. Then cómes another, twice as big, And rolls him up the shore, And says: "Lie there, and call us slaves And vássals never more." "Minion," faint gasping he'd have cried But ló! the wave was gone, And breaks and flows over the king "Enough! he 's had enough," cries loud "Down to this shore, I promise you, King Will will not come soon again "So bé it, so bé it," they all reply, That was the first day kíng Will claimed He éver called them slaves. Walking from TRYBERG to OBERWOLFACH in the BLACK FOREst (Baden), Octob. 911, 1854. WELL, it is a darling creáture! Stáy is it a són or daughter? Són! I knew it - ówn Papa's self, Ówn Papa's nose, mouth and forehead. Fié! no mátter 't hás no sénse yet Six weeks! whý, I 'd say six months old. all 's right again now; Whát a sweet smile! why, it's an ángel. Cóme come, dón't frown, máster Bobby Ísn't it Bóbby I'm to call it? First son's álways fór Papá called; Fié again! a spoonful fénnel; |