Is to her the gods were used to,
Is to grand Greek Aphroditè,

Sprung from seas.

You are just a porcelain trifle,

"Belle Marquise!"

Just a thing of puffs and patches,

Made for madrigals and catches,

Not for heart-wounds, but for scratches,

O Marquise !

Just a pinky porcelain trifle,

"Belle Marquise!

Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry,

Quick at verbal point and parry,
Clever, doubtless; but to marry,

No, Marquise !

IV.

For your Cupid, you have clipped him,

Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him. And with chapeau-bras equipped him,

Just to arm you through your wife-time,

"Belle Marquise !"

"Belle Marquise!"

Say, to trim your toilet tapers,

And the languors of your life-time,

Or, to twist your hair in papers,

Or,

to wean you from the vapours;
As for these,

You are worth the love they give you,
Till a fairer face outlive you,

Or a younger grace shall please;
Till the coming of the crows' feet,
And the backward turn of beaux' feet,

"Belle Marquise!'

Till your frothed-out life's commotion

Settles down to Ennui's ocean,

Or a dainty sham devotion,

"Belle Marquise!"

V.

No we neither like nor love you,

"Belle Marquise !”

Lesser lights we place above you, —
Milder merits better please.

We have passed from Philosophe-dom
Into plainer modern days, -
Grown contented in our oafdom,
Giving grace not all the praise;
And, en partant, Arsinoé, -

Without malice whatsoever,-
We shall counsel to our Chloë

To be rather good than clever;

For we find it hard to smother
Just one little thought, Marquise!
Wittier perhaps than any other, —
You were neither Wife nor Mother,

"Belle Marquise !"

THE STORY OF ROSINA.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF FRANÇOIS BOUCHER.

THE

"On ne badine pas avec l'amour."

HE scene, a wood. A shepherd tip-toe creeping,

Carries a basket, whence a billet peeps, To lay beside a silk-clad Oread sleeping Under an urn; yet not so sound she sleeps But that she plainly sees his graceful act ; "He thinks she thinks he thinks she sleeps," in fact.

One hardly needs the "Peint par François

Boucher."

one sees

All the sham life comes back again,
Alcôves, Ruelles, the Lever, and the Coucher,
Patches and Ruffles, Roués and Marquises;

The little great, the infinite small thing

That ruled the hour when Louis Quinze was king.

For these were yet the days of halcyon weather, — A "Martin's summer", when the nation swam, Aimless and easy as a wayward feather,

Down the full tide of jest and epigram;

A careless time, when France's bluest blood
Beat to the tune of "After us the flood."

Plain Roland still was placidly "inspecting,"
Not now Camille had stirred the Café Foy;
Marat was young, and Guillotin dissecting,

Corday unborn, and Lamballe in Savoie ;
No faubourg yet had heard the Tocsin ring:
This was the summer-when Grasshoppers sing.
And far afield were sun-baked savage creatures,
Female and male, that tilled the earth, and

wrung

Want from the soil; lean things with livid features,

Shape of bent man, and voice that never sung: These were the Ants, for yet to Jacques Bonhomme

Tumbrils were not, nor any sound of drum.

But Boucher was a Grasshopper, and painted,
Rose-water Raphael,
en couleur de rose,

-

The crowned Caprice, whose sceptre, nowise sainted,

Swayed the light realm of ballets and bon

mots;

Ruled the dim boudoir's demi-jour, or drove
Pink-ribboned flocks through some pink-flowered

grove.

A laughing Dame, who sailed a laughing cargo Of flippant loves along the Fleuve du Tendre;

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