"Nay" said I, "more than half to the Damsel must belong,
For she look'd with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,
That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own."





_Written in GERMANY,
On one of the coldest days of the Century_.

_I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany
generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this
being part of the Brunswick Arms_.




A fig for your languages, German and Norse,
Let me have the song of the Kettle,
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
That gallops away with such fury and force
On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
But her pulses beat slower and slower.
The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough,
And _now_ it is four degrees lower.