Oh! she was good as she was fair. When little, and her eyes, her voice, 66 Her every gesture said " rejoice,” And, as she grew, her modest grace, Her down-cast look 'twas heaven to trace, Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted; She, who would lead him where he went, Or, hovering, every wish prevent; (Queen Mab's, perchance, in days of old,) 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 She comes not-nor will come again. 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 THE day was in the golden west; The doves had cooed themselves to rest In Jacqueline's deserted bower; The doves-that still would at her casement peck, And in her walks had ever fluttered round U With purple feet and shining neck, Though many a drop may yet be seen And feigning, as they grew in size, St. Pierre sat by, nor saw nor smiled. His eyes were on his loved Montaigne ; leaf was turned in vain. But every Then in that hour remorse he felt, And his heart told him he had dealt Unkindly with his child. |