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Poem	("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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