Deep in the fruit her hands Rosina buries,
Soon in the scale the ruby bunches lay.
The painter, watching the suspended cherries,
Never had seen such little fingers play ;-
As for the arm, no Hebè's could be rounder;
Low in his heart a whisper said "I've found her."

"Woo first the mother, if you'd win the daughter!" Boucher was charmed, and turned to Madame Mère, Almost with tears of suppliance besought her

Leave to immortalize a face so fair;
Praised and cajoled so craftily that straightway
Voici Rosina,-standing at his gateway.

Shy at the first, in time Rosina's laughter
Rang through the studio as the girlish face
Peeped from some painter's travesty, or after
Showed like an Omphale in lion's case;
Gay as a thrush, that from the morning dew
Pipes to the light its clear "Réveillez-vous."

Just a mere child with sudden ebullitions,
Flashes of fun, and little bursts of song,
Petulant pains, and fleeting pale contritions,
Mute little moods of misery and wrong;
Only a child, of Nature's rarest making,

Wistful and sweet,—and with a heart for breaking!

THE STORY OF ROSINA.

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,-
Came, as a bird that hears its fellow call;
Blessed, as the blind that blesses God for seeing;
Grew, as a flower on which the sun-rays fall;

Loved if you will; she never named it so :
Love comes unseen,-we only see it go.

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.

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Going to die! For who shall waste in sadness,
Shorn of the sun, the very warmth and light,
Miss the green welcome of the sweet earth's gladness,
Lose the round life that only Love makes bright:
There is no succour if these things are taken.
None but Death loves the lips by Love forsaken.

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,
Say, in his eye a sudden tear-drop shone,-
Just for a second a dull feeling mocked him
With a vague sense of something priceless gone;
Then, for at best 'twas but the empty type,
The husk of man with which the days were ripe,-

Then, he forgot her. But, for you that slew her,
You, her own sister, that with airy ease,
Just for a moment's fancy could undo her,
Pass on your way. A little while, Marquise,
Be the sky silent, be the sea serene ;
A pleasant passage-à Sainte Guillotine!

THE STORY OF ROSINA.

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.

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