WRITTEN IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT AN INN IN SWITZERLAND.
From East and West, and North and South,
What shoals are here! they gothey come
Yet, take whatever road they will,
Not one but leads them to the tomb.
They stopstep injust scrawl their names
Then off they hurry, out of breath;
Yet not a hand is busy here,
But writes a register for death.
