SOMETIMES I 've with my Muse a miff,

Sometimes my Muse with me,

You'd think we féll out just to have
The pleasure 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 would not trill one note all day,
Your sóng for morning keep."

No word replied the deár sweet maid,
Nor taunted me again,

But géntly laid her hand on mine
And sáng so sweet a strain,

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 the dark night alone.

In vain I watched the livelong night,
All day I 've watched in vain:

But stáy

-

aye, that's her own dear voice,

And hére she comes again.

Walking from OPPENAU to BEUERN (BADEN), Octob. 12-13, 1854.

SWEET breathes the hawthorn in the early spring
And wallflower petals precious fragrance fling,
Sweet in July blows full the cabbage rose
Ánd in rich beds the gay carnation glows,
Sweet smells on sunny slopes the néw-mown hay,
And belle-de-nuit smells sweet at close of day,
Sweet under southern skies the orange bloom
And lánk acacia spread their mild perfume,
Bút of all odorous sweets I crown thee queen,

Plain, rústic, unpretending, black 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,
And "Silence!" calls to the loud waves;
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;

The king's cheeks grow with choler red,
An ángry man is hé.

"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 from the deep already comes
Another rolling on,

And breaks and flows over the king
As if no king were there,
And knocks about his chair of state
Like any common chair.

"Enough! he 's had enough," cries loud
The fourth wave tumbling in;
"Now let him off; though great his crime,
To drówn him were a sin.

"Dówn to this shore, I promise you,

Unléss he is a fool,

King Will will not come soon again
Thought's ocean waves to rule."

"So bé it, so bé it," they all reply,
And ébb and leave him there
To drý himself as best he can
And gather up his chair.

Thát was the first day king Will claimed
Rúle over Thought's free waves,
And you may swear it was the last

He éver called them slaves.

Walking from TRYBERG to OBERWOLFACH in the BLACK FORESt (Baden), Octob. 9-11, 1854.

Són! I knew it ówn Papá's self,
Ówn Papa's nose, moúth and forehead.
Hów I wish its eyes would open!

Í could álmost swear they 're házel.

Fié! no mátter

Six weeks! whý,

I 'd say six months old. Wipe its nóse all 's right again now; Whát a sweet smile! whý, it's an ángel.

Cóme come, dón't frown, máster Bobby
Ísn't it Bóbby I'm to call it?

First son's always fór Papá called;
Chérub beauty! lét me kiss it.

Fié again! a spoónful fénnel;
Sómething súre 's the matter with it
Ór it would not twist and whinge so,
Sweet, good témpered, quiet dúcky.