("L'Enfant Chantait.") [Bk. I. Xxiii., Paris, January, 1835.] The Small Child Sang; The Mother, Outstretched On The Low Bed, With Anguish Moaned, - Fair Form Pain Should Possess Not Long; For, Ever Nigher, Death Hovered Around Her Head: I Hearkened There This Moan, And Heard Even There That Song. The Child Was But Five Years, And, Close To The Lattice, Aye Made A Sweet Noise With Games And With His Laughter Bright; And The Wan Mother, Aside This Being The Livelong Day Carolling Joyously, Coughed Hoarsely All The Night. The Mother Went To Sleep 'Mong Them That Sleep Alway; And The Blithe Little Lad Began Anew To Sing... Sorrow Is Like A Fruit: God Doth Not Therewith Weigh Earthward The Branch Strong Yet But For The Blossoming. Nelson R. Tyerman.