"f had better have asked Cáto,
Thoú 'rt so hárd upón me, Július,

But thou ’1t nót dený the soul knows
Áfter it has left the body."

"Knóws without brain, meán'st thou Caíus?
Knóws withoút nerves ór sensórium?

Knóws, though knowing 's bút impréssion,
Ór dedúction from impression?"

"Well, I cáre not, só thou gránt'st me
What I think thou 'lt gránt me, Július,

That the soul survives the body,

Lives on in a world beyond this."

"Lives, thou mean'st, although it hasn't one

Própertý to life belonging,

Though it doesn't move, though it doesn't know,

Though it doesn't feel, though it

doésn't live!

"I'm contént, and wish thee áll joy,
Caíus, óf the rich revérsion;

I'll take this world, thou the next take;
What think'st of the bárgain, Caíus?"

Óf the bargain whát thought Cassius,
if his gráve smile showed not that day,
In the Cúria, lóng years after

Ón the Ides of Márch, his steel showed.

CARLSRUHE, Nov. 11, 1855.

INSCRIPTION

FOR A LUCIFER MATCH BOX.

(III)

PROMETHEUS' theft in these dry chips lies hid: Wouldst thou convinced be, rub one on the lid. WEINSBERG (WÜRTTEMBERG), Sept. 22, 1855.

OTHELLO says: Thy púrse is trásh;
Trúst in thy goód name, nót thy cásh.
But í say: Thý good name 's but trash
Íf in thy púrse there is no cásh.

GIEBELSTADT near WÜRZBURG, Oct. 21, 1855.

So 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! GOTHA, Oct. 12, 1855.

As I walked by the hedge
Of my own Truelove's gården,
An hour before sunset

One fine summer évening,
And thought of my Love,

I saw through the hedge,
Where the házel was thinnest,
Something white in the árbour,
And stood still and listened,"
And wished 'twere my Love.

Nothing stirred but my heart;
I drew nearer, still listening,

And nearer and nearer,

And half through the hédge pressed,

And saw 'twas my Love.

The lóng, streaming golden rays

Lít up the árbour,

And painted more rósy
More dámask than éver

The cheek of my Love,

As there without bonnet,

Her head on her arm laid,
Her árm on the táble,

In the rústic chair sítting
Slept Liddy, my Lóve.

I could see her breast heáving,
Almóst hear her breathing;
In her lap lay the nosegay
Which early that morning
I had sent to my Love.

How it happened I scárce know
Or what 'twas that happened,
But, in one minute áfter,
I found myself stealing
Away from my Love;

Back stealing on tiptoe,
As noiseless as shadow,
Or fly that had just sipped
And flew away light from
The lips of my Love.

I might have staid lónger,
I might have pressed harder,
I might have more noise made,
She had still not awákened,
Sly Liddy, my Love!

CARLSRUHE, Dec. 9, 1855.

QUIVIS AND QUILIBET.

QUIVIS.

QUILIBET! Quilibét!

That so hónorest Schiller,

So Virgil adórest,

Quilibét! tell me whý

Thou 'rt so mighty unlike both.

QUILIBET.

Ask Hórace why wasn't he

The ditto of Virgil;

Ask Goéthe why was he

The opposite of Schiller;

Ask the Needle why isn't it
The Póle which it points to;
Ask Damon why hasn't he
The features of Phillis;
And then come and ásk me
Why I on the pipes play
And leave horn and trúmpet
To Virgil and Schiller.

CARLSRUHE, Dec. 13, 1855.

The rose which thou 'st júst plucked, see! is it not broken?

CARLSRUHE, Dec. 18, 1855.