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WHY so shy of death, sweet infant? Death 's but one long, lásting húsh-ó, Ánd the gráve a deep, deep crádle Húng with black cloth and white linen.

"I'm not tired yet of my córals, Cándy, cakes, and milk and honey; in the gráve Mammá won't pét me, Nór Papá bring mẻ new play-things."

Joyous strípling, whý so shún death?
Death's no crábbed, soúr precéptor,
Wakes thee nót of early mornings;
Ín the gráve ’s one lỏng vacátion.

"In the grave 's one lóng vacátion,
Bút no dice, no bówls, no ténnis;
Deáth toasts néver in Champagne wine
Lizzy's love or Bella's beauty."

Mán of rípe years, why so dread death? Ín the gráve there 's nó more trouble, Death keeps watch and léts not enter Pain or loss or fear or sorrow.

"In the grave there is no trouble,
Bút there's also nó enjoyment,

Death keeps wátch and léts not enter
Pleásure, prófit, hópe or hónor."

Feéble, tóttering, weáry old man,
Why from Death's kind help recoil so?
Seé! he spreads a sóft couch for thee;
Cást thy staff away and lié down.

"Gládly would I Deáth's kind hánd take,
Ánd upón his soft couch stretch me,
Did no démons roúnd it hóver,

Did no nightmares its sleep trouble."

Démons, nightmares haúnt not that bed,
Soúnd its sleep, sound, sound and dreámless;
Láy thine heád down on the pillow,

Close thine eyes now, ánd all 's over.

Walking from SUHL, in the THURINGIAN FOREST, to OHRDRUFF; Oct. 4, 1855.

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ACÚTE, obsérvant, witty and profound,

Goethe, the worldly wise, dwells in my brain;
Bút to my heart of hearts, with all thy faults,
I take thee, géntle, noble-minded Schiller,
And with thee moúrn, not mock, humanity.

Walking from LUDWIGSBURG to BEILSTEIN (WÜRTTEMBERG); Sept. 2, 1855.

"TÉLL me, Quintus," once said Virgil,
Ás he walked in Róme with Hórace,
"What think'st thoú of mý Enéis?
Who can judge so well as Quintus?"

"For the compliment I thánk thee,
Though I own I scárce desérve it,
Cléver Públius," ánswered Hórace;
"Thou shalt heár my plaín opinion:

"Thine Enéis is a great work,
Worthy mátch of Grécia's greatest,
Round the Róman Hómer's témples
Binds a wreath of baý perénnial.

"Wider than of Róman Eagle
Shall the flight be of Rome's Épos,

Viewed with wónder bý unbórn tribes
Óf all climates tóngues and colors."

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"With the future," ánswered Virgil,
"Let it bé as Jóve and Fáte will;
Ít 's enough for mé, my Quintus,
Tó have pleased the Róman Píndar.”

OHRDRUFF, near GOTHA; Oct. 4, 1855.

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Ánd my whole béing, bursting into tears,

Ánswers: "She wás" good God! and is't she was?

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SHE never in her whole life wrote one stánza,
She knew no Greék, no Látin, scarcely French,
She played not, dánced not, sáng not, yet when Death
His arms about her thréw, to teár her fróm me,
I would have ránsomed her, not Orpheus-like
With mine own song alone, but with all song,
Músic and dance, philosophy and learning
Were éver, or to bé were, in the world.

GOTHA, Oct. 12, 1855.

THEY say I'm of a Propaganda school

And would have áll men measure by my rule, Ánd they say trué, perhaps; but then the rule, I'd have them measure by, is: THERE'S NO RULE. WÜRZBURG (BAVARIA), Sept. 29, 1855.

INTO two classes áll men Í divide,

The oppressed on this, the oppressors on that, side; Let them change námes and places as they will, Oppressors and oppréssed I find them still.

Walking from SUHL to OBERNHOF in the THURINGIAN FOREST; Oct. 4, 1855.


HEILBRONN, SEPT. 19, 1855.

PLEASANT it is to journey on and on,

Obsérving still new lands and peoples strange,
But far more pleasant on a spot to light

Which with so friendly courtesy receives us,

Thát we stop short and say:

"Why one step further?”

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