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, 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! As for Rosina,-for the quiet sleeper, Whether stone hides her, or the happy grass, If the sun quickens, if the dews beweep her, Laid in the Madeleine or Montparnasse, Nothing we know,—but that her heart is cold, Poor beating heart! And so the story's told. |