Into billowy bosom dreaming

Faintly of the roses;

Whose dim dream a bud discloses

In the gleaming

Undulating almond skin,

Roses nascent soft therein.

Ah! the quiet music of thy beauties undulating;
Ah! to feel, to feel, thy gentle warmth of bosom

palpitating:

What breath from heaven was breathing behind the fairy flower,

Whose ample one white petal thy body had for dower, Blowing so unerringly to mould thee as thou art, Even so waving waist and limb, and the snow about thy heart?

And if my hands were ne'er to thrill, my beautiful, my boy,

As they filled them with thy bosom, the treasure and

the joy,

Why along the ideal limit heaved thy delicate form, So, nor any otherwise, languid, white and warm?

I flung me round him,
I drew him under ;
I clung, I drowned him,
My own white wonder! .

Father and mother,

Weeping and wild,

Came to the forest,
Calling the child,

Came from the palace,

Down to the pool,

Calling my darling,

My beautiful!

Under the water,

Cold and so pale!

Could it be love made

Beauty to fail?

Ah! me for mortals:

In a few moons,

If I had left him,

After some Junes

He would have faded,

Faded away,

He, the young monarch, whom

All would obey,

Fairer than day;

Alien to springtime,
Joyless and grey,
He would have faded,
Faded away,

Moving a mockery,

Scorned of the day!

Now I have taken him

All in his prime,

Saved from slow poisoning

Pitiless Time,

Filled with his happiness,

One with the prime,

Saved from the cruel
Dishonour of Time.
Laid him, my beautiful,

Laid him to rest,

Loving, adorable,

Softly to rest,

Here in my crystalline,

Here in my breast!

A LITTLE CHILD'S MONUMENT.

I

AM lying in the tomb, love,

Lying in the tomb,

Tho' I move within the gloom, love,

Breathe within the gloom;

Men deem life not fled, dear,

Deem my life not fled,

Tho' I with thee am dead, dear,

I with thee am dead,

O my little child!

What is the grey world, darling,

What is the grey world,

Where the worm is curled, darling,

The deathworm is curled ?

They tell me of the spring, dear!

Do I want the spring?

Will she waft upon her wing, dear,

The joy-pulse of her wing,

Thy songs, thy blossoming,

O my little child!

For the hallowing of thy smile, love,

The rainbow of thy smile,

Gleaming for a while, love,

Gleaming to beguile!

Replunged me in the cold, dear,
Leaves me in the cold,

And I feel so very old, dear,

Very, very old!

Would they put me out of pain, dear,

Out of all my pain,

Since I may not live again, dear,

Never live again!

I am lying in the grave, love,

In thy little grave,

Yet I hear the wind rave, love,

And the wild wave!

I would lie asleep, darling,

With thee lie asleep,

Unhearing the world weep, darling,

Little children weep!

O my little child!

II-THE KING AND THE PEASAN1.

WORLD

WORLD-WIDE possessions, populous lands
The monarch doth inherit,

And lordlier kingdoms he commands,

Fair realms within the spirit.

The monarch had a little son,

A child of five years old,

The loveliest earth ere looked upon;
And he is lying cold.

The king is in the olive grove,
A hind sings in the tree;
Below, the infant of his love
Is babbling merrily.

The father beats the boughs, and while Dark oval olives fly,

The boy, with many a laugh and smile, Pursues them far and nigh.

Blue sea between the grey-green leaves Twinkles, and the sun

Through them a playful chequer weaves Over the little one.

The monarch gazes all unseen,
Tears burning his wan eyes;
Tenderly his love doth lean
To bless their Paradise,

As through black bars that foul the day,
And shut him out from joy:

Hear the world-envied monarch say,

Perish, my bauble crown, my toy,

All the science, all the sway,

Power to mould the world my way,
Persuade to beauty the dull clay!
Take all; but leave, ah! leave my boy,
Give me back my life, my joy!
This poor rude peasant I would be,
Yet dare not breathe the wish that he

Were as I am, a king, of misery!"