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once said Cassius
As he walked in Róme with César,
Chátting úpon várious tópics,
Ánd they both as yét were young men
“Thou 'rt a wise lad, and I 'm less shy
Tó enquire of theé than Cáto
Whíther, when it leaves the body,
Think'st thou, Július, doés the soul go?”
“Soúl go, Caius?" answered César,
“Soúl go without limbs or body?
Soúl have voluntary motion
Without moving ápparátus ?”
“Well, perhaps I 've used too strong word,
Ánd what goés must bé corpóreal,
Bút it feéls, the soul feels, Július,
Áfter ít has left the body?”
"To be súre; feels without senses,
Seés without eyes, hears without ears,
Smells without nose, tástes without tongue
Whát 's come over theé, good Caíus ?”
“I had bétter háve asked Cato,
Thou 'rt so hard upon me, Július,
Bút thou 'lt not deny the soúl knows
Áfter it has left the body.”
“Knows without brain, meán’st thou Caius?
Knows withoút nerves or sensórium ?
Knows, though knowing 's bút impression,
Ór deduction from impression?"
“Well, I cáre not, só thou gránt'st me
Whát I think thou 'lt gránt me, Július,
That the soúl survives the body,
Lives on in a world beyond this.”
“Líves, thou meán’st, although it hásn't one
Property to life belonging,
Though it doesn't move, though it doesn't know,
Though it doésn't feel, though it doesn't live!
“í 'm contént, and wish thee áll joy,
Caius, of the rich revérsion;
Í 'll take this world, thou the next take;
Whát think’st of the bárgain, Caíus ?”
Óf the bárgain whát thought Cássius,
íf his gráve smile showed not that day,
Ín the Cúria, lóng years after
On the Ídes of March, his steel showed.
CARLSRUHE, Nov. 11, 1955.
(III) PROMÉTHEUS' théft in these dry chips lies hid: Wouldst thou convinced be, rub one on the lid.
WEINSBERG (WüRTTEMBERG), Sept. 22, 1855.
OTHÉLLO sáys: Thy púrse is trásh;
Trust in thy good name, not thy cásh.
But I say: Thý good name 's but trash
íf in thy púrse there is no cásh.
GIEBELSTADT near WÜRZBURG, Oct. 21, 1855.
many máps, guides, signposts point the way To the next world, I scarce can go astray This side the frontier; but, the barrier past, And firm foot sét on the strange soil at last, I'm in a fix, whither to turn, what do, So inexpérienced I, all round so new Óh for some trústy Murray in my hand, Some Réd Book in, not to, the unknown land!
AS I walked by the hedge
Of my own Truelove's gárden,
An hour before súnset
One fine summer evening,
And thoúght of my Love,
I sáw through the hedge,
Where the házel was thinnest,
Something white in the árbour,
And stood still and listened,
And wished 'twere my Lóve.
Nothing stirred but my heart;
I drew nearer, still listening,
And nearer and nearer,
And hálf through the hedge pressed,
And saw 'twas my Love.
The lóng, streaming golden rays
Lít up the árbour,
And painted more rosy
More dámask than ever
The cheék of my Love,
As there without bónnet,
Her head on her árm laid,
Her árm on the table,
In the rústic chair sítting
Slept Liddy, my Love.
I could seé her breast heáving,
Almost hear her breathing;
In her láp lay the nósegay
Which early that morning
I had sent to my Lóve.
How it happened I scárce know
Or whát 'twas that happened,
But, in one minute after,
I found myself stealing
Away from my Lóve;
Back stealing on tiptoe,
As noiseless as shadow,
Or flý that had júst sipped
And flew away light from
The lips of my Lóve.
I might have staid longer,
I might have pressed hårder,
I might have more noise made,
She had still not awákened,
Sly Líddy, my Love!