It shall pour down his side, a ceaseless flood, In search of the pine for ages; Time healeth not the gaping wound Nor the depth of his woe assuages. And a thousand trees crowd round his crest, Waving their maiden tresses; In vain! he careth for none of these, Still true to his lost caresses.” We have only been able to give a few leaves from the forest of Carmen Sylva’s songs. We will now close the picture of the surprising creative power of our authoress with the last verses of her poem “Carmen.” She here addresses her readers and says-- “And all which here I have been singing It is your very own! From your deep heart its music bringing, To sad chords of your sorrows ringing, Winning for you the crown! Yours were the thoughts for ever ranging, You made the folk-tales true! In this earth-day of chance and changing, Of lives unfolding, deaths estranging, Look, Soul! there, too, are you! Perchance, when Death shall bring sad leisure, And these pale lips are dumb, Then you my words may better measure, And in my true love take new pleasure; Then will my meaning come!” --_Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold._ In the second edition “My Rest” appeared in small single volumes, _i.e._--1. “Heights and Depths;” 2. “Worldly Wisdom;” 3. “Mother and Child;” 4. “Ballads and Romances.” “My Rhine” was new poetry. Under this title Carmen Sylva brought out in 1884 a poetical description of the towns and castles of her native Rhine. Artistic illustrations and etchings of the landscapes adorn each poem. “It Knocks.” “Between whiles I have written a little novel of 100 pages,” writes the Queen, “because a poor boy came to beg me to give his father some editing to do. They were so badly off, he said, and he wished to surprise his parents with a manuscript of mine. I think it is the best thing I have written, all the more as it is quite true, and I have only created the framework. If one is not too discreet, real life offers more than the creatures of one’s imagination. “I do not think it makes a difference in the work if the _donnée_ is true or not. All is true which is true inwardly, for all has happened, and the novelist has only to disentangle the thread and show why it has happened. It is tremendously hard work for body and mind.” “My Book.” An Egyptian picture-book with drawings from Egypt round the borders, and facsimile poems of Carmen Sylva (1885).