A NIGHT IN MY INN.

AT NINE O' Clock, weáry, I lie down in béd;

At TEN O' Clock swarms of gnats búzz round my head;
At ELÉVEN can it búgs be that óver me creép?
At TWELVE for the tickling of fleás I can't sleep;
At ONE how that bóld squalling brát I could flóg!
At Twó o' Clock bów-wow-wow goes the watchdog;
From THREE oút every quarter hour cróws chanticleér;
At Four down the street ráttling the Málleposte I hear;
From the steeple the mátins come peáling at Five;
At Six to the márket the cárts and cars drive;
At SEVEN from my fáce I 'm kept brúshing the fliés;
At EIGHT I can't sleep for the sún in my eyes;
At NÍNE comes a súdden tap táp to my door;

I rise in my shirt and barefoót cross the floór,

Turn the key and peep oút: - "Well, my good friend, what

nów?"

"Please will you be shaved, Sir?" replies with a bów

A little, pert, dápper, smug fáced gentlemán

With apron and rázor and hót-water cán;

Struck with hórror I slám the door tó in his fáce.

Gentle reader, imágine yourself in my pláce,

With a beard such as mine, and a threát to be shaved,
And all the night sleepless how hád you beháved?
But I did him no hárm, only slámmed the door tó
An example of patience for Christian and Jew -
Then dressed, breakfasted, sét out and, trávelling all dáy,
Passed the night in the next inn much in the same way.

Walking from MEHREN to LOSHEIM, in the EIFEL (RHENISH PRUSSIA); Novem. 1-2, 1854.

THE RECRUIT.

OFF I gó a redcoat soldier, old England's lion cúb,

With my sérgeant and my colors and my rúb-a-dub-a-dúb; Here's my firelock, here's my bayonet, here's my leather cross-belt white,

Here's my shining black cartoúche-box - March! hált! face left and right!

There's a húndred thousand óf us, counting évery mother's són,

And not one among us áll knows why the war 's begún; That's our commander's business, our business is to fight, Down with our country's énemies, and Gód defend the right.

Good bye, my pretty lássy, I'm going from you fár; Think sometimes of your rédcoat when you hear talk of the wár;

Take hálf this bran-new sixpence for a plédge twixt you and

mé,

And every time you say your prayers, pray for our victory.

Come cóme, let's have no frétting to spoil those pretty eyes; I'd rather have one sweet smile than áll your tears and

sighs.

Here's a hundred kisses for you one more for luck

don't cry

And now I'm off in eárnest, good bye, my lass, good bye.

KREUZNACH in RHENISH PRUSSIA, Octob. 29, 1854.

HEAVEN.

"So this is Heaven," said I to my conductor,
"And I'm at lást in full and sure possession
Of life etérnal; lét me look about me.
Methinks, somehow, it 's nót what I expected;
Nor can I say I feel that full delight,
That éxtasy I had anticipated.

Perhaps the reason is, it's all so new,
And I must hére, as on the Earth below,
Grów by degreés accústomed and inured."

My guide replied not, but went on before me,

I fóllowing: "Are you súre we are in Heaven?"
Said Í, growing uneasy; for I saw

Neither bright ský, nor sun, nor flowers, nor trees;
Heard nó birds cároling, no gurgling waters;
Far less saw angel forms, heard angel voices
Singing in chórus praise to the Most High;
But all was blank and desert, dim and dull,
Místy, obscure and undistinguishable,
Fórmless and void as if seen through thick fog
Or nót seen through, but only the fog seen,
The fog alone, monotonous, uniform,
Ráyless, impenetrable, cheerless, dark;

And all was silent as beneath the ocean

Ten thousand thousand fathom, or at the centre
Of the sólid Earth; and when I strove to speak

I started, stárted when I strove to hear
My guide's responses, for neither my guide
Nor Í spoke húmanly, nor in a human
Lánguage, for I had left my tongue on Earth,
To rót with my body, and had become a spirit
Voiceless and eárless, eyeless and etherial,
And with my guide, for he too was a spirit,
Conversed by cónsciousness without the aid

Of voice or tongue or ears or signs or sounds:
"If this indeed is Heaven," said I at last

Or stróve or wished to say, "in pity bring me

Out of the waste and horrid wilderness

To where there is some light, some soúnd, some voice,
Some living thing, some stir, some cheerfulness."
"Spirit, thou talk'st as thou wert still in the flesh,
And still hadst eyes to see, and eárs to hear,
And toúch wherewith to hold communication
With sólid and material substances.

What use were light here where there are no eyes?
What use were sounds here where there are no ears?
What use were substance where there are no bodies?
Here cheerful stir or action would but harm
Where every thing 's already in perfection,
Already in its right, most fitting place.

Nay, sigh not, spirit; this. is thy wished Heaven."
"At least there is communion among spirits,
Spirits knów and love each other, spirits hope,
Spirits rejoice together, and together

Sing Hallelújahs to the Lord their God."

"I said that spirits sing not, when I said

Spirits have neither voices, tongues, nor ears;

And whére's the room for hope, or love, or knowledge Where there's no heárt, brain, ignorance or passion? With thy conductor there 's indeed communion,

Súch as between us now, till thou 'rt installed
And in complete possession; of itself

Then ceáses all communion, useless grown;
Ánd thou art left in thy beatitude,

Untouched, unstirred, through all eternity;
Without all care, all passion, hope and fear;
Nóthing to do or suffer, seek or avoid."
“Then bring me, ere communion wholly ceases,
Quick bring me to my mother's sainted spirit.
Mainly that I might once more see my mother,
Knów and embrace and to my bosom préss her,
Lónged I for Heaven; quick, kind conductor, quick.”
"Thou hast no mother, spirit; néver hadst.
Spirits engender not, nor are engendered.

Shé whom thou call'st thy mother, was the mother
Nót of thy spiritual, but thy fleshly nature.
Thou, spirit, com'st from God, and having dwelt
Some few, brief seasons in the fleshly body
Engendered by the flesh thou call'st thy mother
Return'st, by me condúcted, back to Heaven,
Leaving behind thee in the Earth to rot
The consanguineous flesh, mother and son."
"Then bring me to the spirit that sometime
Dwélt in that flesh which mixed with other flesh
The flesh engendered which, below on Earth,
So long as it lived, afforded me kind shelter."
"Thou know'st not what thou ask'st, scarce spiritual spirit;
Éven were communion possible in Heaven

Twixt spirits which on Earth had grown acquainted
Through th' áccident of having inhabited

Related bodies, such communion were

In this case out of the question, for the spirit

Which chanced to have its dwelling in that flesh

By which the flesh in which thou dwelt'st on Earth