UNE MARQUISE. 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!" 35 THE STORY OF ROSINA. AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF FRANÇOIS BOUCHER. "On ne badine pas avec l'amour." HE scene, a wood. A shepherd tip-toe creeping, THE 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." Patches and Ruffles, Roués and Marquises; The little great, the infinite small thing For these were yet the days of halcyon weather,- Down the full tide of jest and epigram ;- THE STORY OF ROSINA. Plain Roland still was placidly "inspecting," And far afield were sun-baked savage creatures, But Boucher was a Grasshopper, and painted,— The crowned Caprice, whose sceptre, nowise sainted, A laughing Dame, who sailed a laughing cargo Whose gentlest merit gentiment se rendre;— 37 Her Boucher served, till Nature's self betraying, As Wordsworth sings, the heart that loved her not, Made of his work a land of languid Maying, Filled with false gods and muses misbegot ;A Versailles Eden of cosmetic youth, Wherein most things went naked, save the Truth. Once, only once,-perhaps the last night's revels And sauntered slowly through the Rue Sainte-Anne. Wherefore, we know not; but, at times, far nearer Perhaps, as he walked, the grass he called "too green" But, as he walked, he tired of god and goddess, Folds that confess, and flutters that reveal; THE STORY OF ROSINA. 39 So, in the Louvre, the passer-by might spy some Arch-looking head, with half-evasive air, Start from behind the fruitage of Van Huysum, Grape-bunch and melon, nectarine and pear:Here 'twas no Venus of Batavian city, But a French girl, young, piquante, bright, and pretty. Graceful she was, as some slim marsh-flower shaken Black was her hair as any blackbird's feather; Sloes were her eyes; but her soft cheeks were peaches, Up till the blush had vanquished all the brown, And, like two birds, the sudden lids dropped down. As Boucher smiled, the bright black eyes ceased dancing, As Boucher spoke, the dainty red eclipse Filled all the face from cheek to brow, enhancing Half a shy smile that dawned around the lips. Then a shrill mother rose upon the view; 66 Cerises, M'sieu? Rosine, dépêchez-vous !” |