Oh! she was good as she was fair. As pure in thought as angels are, And, as she grew, her modest grace, Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted; She, who would lead him where he went, Or, hovering, every wish prevent; Which, when a tale is long, dispenses Its fragrant dust to drowsy senses. In her who mourned not, when they missed her, No more the orphan runs to take Not now, his little lesson done, With Frederic blowing bubbles in the sun; (Some story of the days of old, Barbe Bleue or Chaperon Rouge half-told To him who would not be denied ;) U THE day was in the golden west; And, curtained close by leaf and flower, In Jacqueline's deserted bower; The doves-that still would at her casement peck, And in her walks had ever fluttered round With purple feet and shining neck, That casement, underneath the trees, Though many a drop may yet be seen And feigning, as they grew in size, St. Pierre sat by, nor saw nor smiled. And his heart told him he had dealt |