(After Victor Hugo.)

I never thought at all of Rose, As Rose and I went through the dell, We fell a talking I suppose, But yet of what I cannot tell.

Pebbles below and mosses over, Rippled a cool and limpid rill; Nature lay sleeping like a lover In the embrace of the woods so still.

Shoes and stockings off she slipped, And with her sweetly innocent air Into the stream her feet she dipped, Yet I never saw her feet were bare.

I only talked, the time beguiling As we wandered, she and I; And sometimes I saw her smiling, But now and then I heard her sigh.

Only her beauty dawned on me When silent woods were left behind, "Never mind that now!" said she And now I shall always mind.

REGRETS.