Day after day the little loving creature Came and returned; and still the Painter felt, Day after day, the old theatric Nature Fade from his sight, and like a shadow melt Paniers and Powder, Pastoral and Scene, Killed by the simple beauty of Rosine. As for the girl, she turned to her new being,- There is a figure among Boucher's sketches, Slim, a child-face, the eyes as black as beads, Head set askance, and hand that shyly stretches Flowers to the passer, with a look that pleads. This was no other than Rosina surely ;— None Boucher knew could else have looked so purely. But forth her Story, for I will not tarry, Whether he loved the little "nut-brown maid"; If, of a truth, he counted this to carry Straight to the end, or just the whim obeyed, Nothing we know, but only that before More had been done, a finger tapped the door. Opened Rosina to the unknown comer. 'Twas a young girl—“ une pauvre fille," she said, "They had been growing poorer all the summer; Father was lame, and mother lately dead; Bread was so dear, and,-oh! but want was bitter, Would Monsieur pay to have her for a sitter? Men called her pretty." Boucher looked a minute : 66 Allez, Rosina! sit behind the curtain." Meantime the Painter, with a mixed emotion, Thrice-happy France, whose facile sons inherit Power to forget Our Boucher rose, I say, With hand still prest to heart, with pulses throbbing, And blankly stared at poor Rosina sobbing. "This was no model, M'sieu, but a lady." Boucher was silent, for he knew it true. "Est-ce que vous l'aimez?" Never answer made he! Ah, for the old love fighting with the new ! "Est-ce que vous l'aimez?" sobbed Rosina's sorrow. "Bon!" murmured Boucher; "she will come to-morrow." How like a Hunter thou, O Time, dost harry Us, thine oppressed, and pleasured with the chase, Sparest to strike thy sorely-running quarry, Following not less with unrelenting face. Time, if Love hunt, and Sorrow hunt, with thee, Woe to Rosina! By To-morrow stricken, Swift from her life the sun of gold declined. Only a little by the door she lingers,- No, not a sign. Already with the Painter Grace and the nymphs began recovered reign; Truth was no more, and Nature, waxing fainter, Paled to the old sick Artifice again. Seeing Rosina going out to die, How should he know what Fame had passed him by? Going to die! For who shall waste in sadness, So, in a little, when those Two had parted,— Tired of himself, and weary as before, Boucher remembering, sick and sorry-hearted, Stayed for a moment by Rosina's door. “Ah, the poor child !" the neighbours cry of her, "Morte, M'sieu, morte! On dit,—des peines du cœur!” Just for a second, say, the tidings shocked him, With a vague sense of something priceless gone; The husk of man with which the days were ripe,— Then, he forgot her. But, for you that slew her, Just for a moment's fancy could undo her, Be the sky silent, be the sea serene; A pleasant passage à Sainte Guillotine! |