QUEEN'S QUARTERLY. 



Sudden, amid our frank and free relation, 



Born of that limpid light, 

 From you, rich instrument, whose sole vibration 



Was radiancy and delight. 



From you, joyous as bugle-call resounding 



Across the sparkling morn. 

 With sharp and faltering accent, strangely sounding. 



Escaped one note forlorn. 



Like some misshapen infant, dark, neglected, 



Its kindred blush to own, 

 And long have hidden, by no eye detected. 



In some dim cave unknown. 



Your clashing note cried clear, poor, prisoned spirit, 

 That nothing in this vvorld is sure, or fast. 



And that man's selfishness, though decked as merit, 

 Betrays itself at last. 



That hard the lot to be a Queen of beauty. 

 And all is fruitless, like the treadmill toil 



Of some paid dancer, fainting at her duty, 

 Still with her vacant smile. 



That if one build on hearts, ill shall befal it, — 

 That all things crash, and love and beauty flee ; 



Until Oblivion flings them in his wallet, 

 The spoil of Eternity. 



Oft have I called to mind that night enchanted, 



The silence and the languor over all ; 

 And that wild confidence, thus harshly chanted 

 At the heart's confessional. 



— Charles Baudelaire. 

 Translated by Lois Saunders. 



