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A NIGHT IN MY INN.

Ar Níne o' Clock, weáry, I lie down in béd;
At TÉN o Clock swárms of gnats búzz round my head;
At ELÉVEN can it búgs be that óver me creép?
At Twélve for the tickling of fleás I can't sleep;
At ÓNE how that bóld squalling brát I could flóg!
At Two o'clock bów - WOW - wow goes the watchdog;
From THREE out every quárter hour cróws chanticleer;
At Four dówn the street rattling the Málleposte I hear;
From the steeple the matins come peáling at Five;
At Six to the market the carts and cars drive;
At Séven from my fáce I 'm kept brúshing the fliés; -
At Eight I can't sleep for the sun in my eyes ;
At Nine comes a súdden tap táp to my door;
I rise in my shirt and barefoot cross the floor,
Turn the key and peep out: — “Well, my good friend, what

nów?”
“Please will you be shaved, Sir?” repliés with a bów
A little, pert, dápper, smug fáced gentlemán
With ápron and rázor and hót- water cán;
Struck with hórror I slám the door tó in his fáce.
Gentle reader, imagine yoursélf in my place,
With a beárd such as mine, and a threat to be shaved,
And all the night sleepless -- how hád you beháved ?
But I did him no hárm, only slámmed the door to —
An exámple ,of pátience for Christian and Jew –
Then dressed, breákfasted, set out and, travelling all dáy,
Passed the night in the next inn much in the same way.

Walking from MEHREN to LOSHEIM, in the EIFEL (Rhenish Prussia ); Novem. 1-2, 1854.

THE RECRUIT.

Off I gó a redcoat soldier, old England's lion cúb,
With my sérgeant and my colors and my rúb-a-dub-a-dúb;
Here 's my firelock, here 's my báyonet, here 's my leather

cross-belt whíte, Here 's my shining black cartouche-box – March! hált!

face left and right!

There 's a hundred thousand of us, counting every mother's

són, And not one among us áll knows why the war 's begún; That 's our commander's búsiness, our business is to fight, Down with our country's énemies, and Gód defend the right.

Good bye, my pretty lássy, I 'm going from you fár;
Think sometimes of your rédcoat when you heár talk of the

wár; Take hálf this bran-new sixpence for a plédge twixt you and

mé, And every time you sáy your prayers, pray for our victorý.

Come cóme, let 's have no frétting to spoil those pretty eyes; I'd rather have one sweet smile than áll your tears and

sighs. Here 's a húndred kisses for you – one more for luck

don't cry And now I 'm off in earnest, good bye, my lass, good bye.

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KREUZNACH in Rhenish Prussia, Octob. 29, 1854.

HEAVEN.

"So this is Heáven," said I to my conductor,
“Ánd I 'm at lást in full and sure possession
Of lífe eternal; lét me look about me.
Methinks, somehow, it 's not what I expected;
Nor cán I say I feel that full delight,
That éxtasy I had anticipated.
Perhaps the reason is, it 's all so new,
And I must hére, as on the Earth below,
Grów by degrees accustomed and inured.”
My guide replied not, but went on before me,
I following: — “Are you súre we are in Heaven ?”
Said Í, growing uneasy; for I saw
Neíther bright ský, nor sun, nor flowers, nor trees;
Heard nó birds cároling, no gurgling waters;
Far léss saw angel forms, heard angel voices
Singing in chórus praise to the Most High;
But áll was blank and desert, dim and dull,
Místy, obscúre and undistinguishable,
Fórmless and void as if seen through thick fog
Or not seen throúgh, but only the fog seen,
The fóg alone, monotonous, uniform,

And áll was silent as beneath the ocean
Ten thoúsand thousand fathom, or at the centre
Of the sólid Earth; and when I strove to speak

I started, started when I strove to hear
My guide's responses, for neither my guide
Nor I spoke húmanly, nor in a human
Lánguage, for I had left my tongue on Earth,
To rót with my body, and had become a spirit
Voiceless and earless, eyeless and etherial,
Ånd with my guide, for he too was a spirit,
Convérsed by consciousness without the aid
Of voice or tongue or ears or signs or sounds: -
“If this indeed is Heaven,” said I at last
Or stróve or wished to say, “in píty bring me
Out of the waste and horrid wilderness
To whére there is some light, some soúnd, some voice,
Some living thing, some stir, some cheerfulness.”
“Spírit, thou talk'st as thou wert still in the flesh,
And still hadst eyes to see, and ears to hear,
And toúch wherewith to hold communication
With sólid and material substances.
What úse were light here where there are no eyes ?
What úse were sounds here where there are no ears?
What úse were substance where there are no bodies ?
Here cheerful stir or action would but harm
Where every thing 's already in perfection,
Already in its right, most fitting place.
Nay, sígh not, spirit; this is thy wished Heaven.”.
“At leást there is communion among spirits,
Spirits know and love each other, spirits hope,
Spírits rejoice together, and together
Sing Hallelújahs to the Lord their God.”
“I said that spírits sing not, when I said
Spirits have neither voices, tongues, nor ears;
And whére 's the room for hope, or love, or knowledge
Where there 's no heárt, brain, ignorance or passion?
With thy conductor there 's indeed communion,

Súch as between us now, till thou ’rt installed
And in complete possession; of itself
Then ceases all communion, useless grown;
Ánd thou art left in thy beatitude,
Untouched, unstirred, through all eternity;

Nothing to do or suffer, seek or avoid.”
“Then bring me, ere communion wholly ceases,
Quick bring me to my mother's sainted spirit.
Mainly that I might once more see my mother,
Knów and embráce and to my bosom préss her,
Lónged I for Heáven; quíck, kind conductor, quick."
“Thou hast no mother, spirit; never hadst.
Spírits engender not, nor are engendered.
Shé whom thou call'st thy mother, was the mother
Nót of thy spiritual, but thy fleshly nature.
Thou, spirit, com’st from God, and having dwelt
Some féw, brief seasons in the fleshly body
Engendered by the flesh thou call'st thy mother
Retúrn’st, by me conducted, back to Heaven,
Leáving behind thee in the Earth to rot
The consanguineous flesh, mother and son.”
“Then bring me to the spirit that sometime
Dwélt in that flesh which mixed with other flesh
The flesh engendered which, below on Earth,
So long as it lived, afforded me kind shelter.”
“Thou know'st not what thou ask’st, scarce spiritual spirit;
Éven were communion possible in Heaven
Twixt spirits which on Earth had grown acquainted

Related bodies, such communion were
In this case out of the question, for the spirit
Which chánced to have its dwelling in that flesh
By which the flesh in which thou dweltst on Earth

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