ON THE DEATH OF A DEAR GIRL, SEVEN YEARS OLD

Translated from Hégésippe Moreav, by Sir Tollemache Sinclair. Ah me ! had I but known, when my voice which thee taught Tired thee with tasks, that o'er thy head so full of thought The fatal dark bird of the dead, unseen, had flown. That fever watched her prey, that that door near thy bed. Where but last eve we played, would see thee pass through, dead, Ah me! had I but known.

398 LilRMES ET SOURIRES

I would have made thine, child, the happiest life on earth, I would have placed within thy reach of joys no dearth, Thy laughter would have rung each moment then I'd gauge And I'd have placed in thy short life without a pause As much intense delight as would much envy cause

In those blest for an age.

Far from those spots, where prisoned infancy grows pale, We would have revelled in the forest and the vale. In woods, of songs and perfumes full, and love so gay, Nests I'd have emptied, and thy basket filled, with glee. And I'd have given thee far more flowers than cen a bee

Can find in one long day.

And when old Christmas came with shoulders draped, at last In his snow-cloak, thou'dst then have had thy light repast, By toys and games when midnight sounds and joy invites 'Midst all the treasures which as gifts would on thee rain, I would have made thee sit, like some young queen not vain

Amidst her court dolights.

But I knew not, I taught thee still, unknown thy doom Sure of thy future, I o'erurged thy mind to bloom. One fatal day all hope for thee was sadly flown, I saw the book fall from thy little hands, dear dove. At once thou ceasedst me to hear to live, to love.

Ah me ! had I but known !