The Son In Old Age.

("Ma Regina, cette noble figure.")     [LES BURGRAVES, Part II.]     Thy noble face, Regina, calls to mind     My poor lost little one, my latest born.     He was a gift from God - a sign of pardon -     That child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year!     I to his little cradle went, and went,     And even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it.     For when one's very old, one is a child!     Then took it up and placed it on my knees,     And with both hands stroked down its soft, light hair -     Thou wert not born then - and he would stammer     Those pretty little sounds that make one smile!     And though not twelve months old, he had a mind.     He recognized me - nay, knew me right well,     And in my face would laugh - and that child-laugh,     Oh, poor old man! 'twas sunlight to my heart.     I meant him for a soldier, ay, a conqueror,     And named him George. One day - oh, bitter thought!     The child played in the fields. When thou art mother,     Ne'er let thy children out of sight to play!     The gypsies took him from me - oh, for what?     Perhaps to kill him at a witch's rite.     I weep! - now, after twenty years - I weep     As if 'twere yesterday. I loved him so!     I used to call him "my own little king!"     I was intoxicated with my joy     When o'er my white beard ran his rosy hands,     Thrilling me all through.     Foreign Quarterly Review.