When she first went to Roumania, no one suspected that Princess Elizabeth was a poetess. Once, when the poet Alexandri was in attendance in Bucharest, she said to him with deep blushes, “I wish to make a confession to you, but I have not the courage.” After a long pause, she said bashfully, with a soft voice, “I, too, write poems.” At Alexandri’s request, she showed him some of them. He saw at once that she had poetical gifts, and encouraged her to go forward. He sent her a thick volume of his manuscripts, and she began to translate popular Roumanian legends into German. In the work of translation she learnt practically much of the “art of poetry.” She had written poetry hitherto just as a bird sings. Rhymes and verses came more readily to her than prose. It was in her great sorrow for the death of her daughter that she betook herself to translation. She needed to occupy her mind by strenuous work. This she found in translation. She not only translated Roumanian works into German, but also the treasures of German literature into Roumanian. In this way she thought she could render the greatest service to her subjects. The effect of such work upon her mind she describes to her mother thus:—“When I am not actually asleep, neither my head nor hands rest for a second; otherwise it fares ill with me. Constant activity keeps the mind fresh, and sometimes only am I overcome when I remember my beloved one.” She naturally felt a great longing to see her mother once more. It was arranged for them to meet at Cologne, and from thence to proceed to St. Leonards for a few weeks. She was much impressed by London. They paid a visit to Oxford, where they were Max Müller’s guests for two days. It was here that she presented to her mother a book in missal form, called “My Journey Through the World; containing Rhymes and Versicles Confided to the Heart of My Mother.” Charles Kingsley was present when she astonished her mother by handing this volume to her, and was much touched by one of the poems pointed out to him, of which the following is a rough but faithful rendering. It is called ONLY ONE. From need and misfortune preserve it secure; From sin keep its little heart, keep it aye pure; Lead Thou it Thyself all its journey below. One only I have, as Thou, Father, dost know. The book contained poems from the time of her confirmation till her thirtieth year.