LA CHANTEUSE.
Along the green sward of the Bois, the child
Begged. She had veritable tears in her eyes,
Humble her air, a face modest and mild,
And hands clasped tight, to wake men's sympathies.
A sun-browned brow by dark, dark hair o'erhung,
Tangled and long, feet gray with dust, for dress
Around her figure an old garment hung,
That barely served to hide her nakedness.
She followed every traveller to declare
The same unvaried, melancholy tale;
Our consciences would have too much to bear,
Were we to credit all such stories stale.
She begged a farthing and a bit of bread,
She had, I know not in what wretched street,
One parent out of work, one sick in bed,
Brothers in cradles—they had nought to eat.
Heard or repelled, she passed, where trees embower,
On moss-spread turf to rest awhile, poor thing!
Played with an insect, stripped of leaves a flower,
Or broke the new shoots summoned forth by spring.
