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Dówn the street toward my hall - door
When I turn my face once more,
Whó so joyful thén as Tráy ?
Try if you can make him stáy.

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Lies with múzzle on the ground,
Ánd half clósed eye, watching round,
While prepáratives dúly máde
Crúmbcloth spread and táble laid

Hérald neár approaching Threé,
Hoúr of weight to Tráy and mé;
Weighty hoúr to mé and Tráy,
Túrning-point of the whole dáy.

Súch our fórenoons; would you know
íf our afternoons pass só,
Wórse or better; I can't say
Thére 's much difference -- is there, Tráy?

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND); April 8,

1855.

No more questions, good friénd, no more questions, I práy;
I'd be chooser mysélf what to say or not say;
With your "Whó?' 'Which?' and “Whát?' 'How?' "When ?'

"Wherefore ?' and “Why?'
You but shút my heart clúser, my tongue tighter tié;
Nay, you 've nó one to bláme but yourself, if with lýing
And quibbling and shuffling I páy back your prýing.
So deal with me fairly and give quid pro quo
And your own thoughts first tell me, if my thoughts you'd knów.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY; March 30, 1855.

TIS the little boy láshing his top in the coúrt;
With all his whole heárt he's intént on his spórt,
And ás his top mérrily spins round and round,
In the world where 's a happier soúl to be found ?

I 'll go down to the court and the whole livelong dáy
At whip-my- top there with that háppy boy pláy;
Give me tóp and lash here, and let hím take who will
My grówn man's wealth, honors, strength, wisdom, and skill.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY; May 6, 1855.

Ás in Tibur's pleásant villa

Strolled Mecenas once with Hórace,
“What can be the reason, poet,”
Said Mecenas cavalierly,

“That the adjective must álways
To the noún be só obsequious;
Fóllow all its whíms and húmors,
Trót beside it like a spániel ?"

“I don't know, heard never reason,"
Answered Hórace, his head sháking.
“Whát! not knów?" repliéd Mecenas,
"I thought poets knew all súch things.”

“Now I récolléct," said Hérace
With an arch smile, “my schoolmáster
Úsed to say that noún was pátron,
Adjective, poor dévil! poet.”

Walking from ZELL to SIMMERN, RHENISH PRUSSIA; July 9, 1855.

'Twas on the First of January early in the morning
I paid my Love a vísit, and a happy new year wished her;
She gave me her right hand and said she was glad to see me-
Ah! little thought I thén, she was entering on her last year.

'Twas on the First of February, a cold and snowy morning, I paid my Love a visit and asked her was she quíte well: "I 've got a little cough,” said she, “but I don't think any.

thing of it; Coughs and colds are going, and I hope I 'll soon be better.”

'Twas on the First of March and a bitter wind was blowing; I paid my Love a vísit, and asked her was she bétter: “I'm not much better yét,” said she, “and the cough is

sticking tó me, But when the weather sóftens I don't doubt I 'll be better.”

'Twas on the First of Ápril when a blink of sun was gleaming Between two chilly showers, I paid my Love a vísit; When she saw me her eye brightened and she said she'd

soon be finely, But I thought she didn't look well and I had a sad foreboding. 'Twas on delicious Máy-day I paid my Love a vísit; The sky was clear, the air was soft, the birds were gaily

singing, But my Love her pallid cheek upon her hand was leáning, And I didn't ask her how she was, for I saw it but too clearly.

'Twas on the First of leafy June I paid my Love a vísit; When she saw me from the window she waved her hand to

greét me, And I entered the house joyful, thinking she was surely bétter, But when I came in near her I saw how she was wasting.

On the First of warm Julý I paid my Love a vísit;
She was chilly cold and trémbling, with her shawl wrapt

close about her,
For the fever fit was on her, and insidious Hectic búsy
Sápping poor besieged Life's weak and tottering fortress.

Upon the First of Aúgust I paid my Love a vísit;
She was laid upon the sofa, and her hand was dry and búrning;
She bade me kindly welcome, and I sat down there beside her,
But rose and came away straight, for she talked to me of dýing.

Upon September First I paid my Love a vísit;
She raised her head upon the pillow and looked out on the

reápers: “How pleasant it's out there," said she, “and yet I 'm still

growing weaker, And perhaps” but there she stopped short, for she heard

me sóbbing

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