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ON HEARING THE PRINCESS ROYAL{1} SING by Victor Hugo
     ("Dans ta haute demeure.")

     {Bk. III. ix., 1881.}
     In thine abode so high
       Where yet one scarce can breathe,
     Dear child, most tenderly
       A soft song thou dost wreathe.

     Thou singest, little girl—
       Thy sire, the King is he:
     Around thee glories whirl,
       But all things sigh in thee.

     Thy thought may seek not wings
       Of speech; dear love's forbidden;
     Thy smiles, those heavenly things,
       Being faintly born, are chidden.

     Thou feel'st, poor little Bride,
       A hand unknown and chill
     Clasp thine from out the wide
       Deep shade so deathly still.

     Thy sad heart, wingless, weak,
       Is sunk in this black shade
     So deep, thy small hands seek,
       Vainly, the pulse God made.

     Thou art yet but highness, thou
       That shaft be majesty:
     Though still on thy fair brow
       Some faint dawn-flush may be,

     Child, unto armies dear,
       Even now we mark heaven's light
     Dimmed with the fume and fear
       And glory of battle-might.

     Thy godfather is he,
       Earth's Pope,—he hails thee, child!
     Passing, armed men you see
       Like unarmed women, mild.

     As saint all worship thee;
       Thyself even hast the strong
     Thrill of divinity
       Mingled with thy small song.

     Each grand old warrior
       Guards thee, submissive, proud;
     Mute thunders at thy door
       Sleep, that shall wake most loud.

     Around thee foams the wild
       Bright sea, the lot of kings.
     Happier wert thou, my child,
       I' the woods a bird that sings!

     NELSON R. TYERMAN.

     {Footnote 1: Marie, daughter of King Louis Philippe, afterwards Princess
     of Würtemburg.}

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