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WOE, he went galloping into the war,
Clara, Clara!
Let us two dream: shall he 'scape with a scar?
Scarcely disfigurement, rather a grace
Making for manhood which nowise we mar:
See, while I kiss it, the flush on his face--
Rosny, Rosny!


Light does he laugh: "With your love in my soul"--
(Clara, Clara!)
"How could I other than--sound, safe and whole--
Cleave who opposed me asunder, yet stand
Scatheless beside you, as touching love's goal,
Who won the race kneels, craves reward at your hand--
Rosny, Rosney?"


Ay, but if certain who envied should see!
Clara, Clara,
Certain who simper: "The hero for me
Hardly of life were so chary as miss
Death--death and fame--that's love's guerdon when She
Boasts, proud bereaved one, her choice fell on this
Rosny, Rosny!"


So,--go on dreaming,--he lies mid a heap
(Clara, Clara,)
Of the slain by his hand: what is death but a sleep?
Dead, with my portrait displayed on his breast:
Love wrought his undoing: "No prudence could keep
The love-maddened wretch from his fate." That is best,
Rosny, Rosny!