("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.