Anne in that garden of childhood grew nearest Elizabeth: she Tenderly tended and loved her, a babe with a babe on her knee: Slight and white from the cradle was Anne; a floweret born Rathe, out of season, a rose that peep'd out when the hedge was in thorn. 'Why should it be so with us?' thought Elizabeth oft; for in her The soul 'gainst the body protesting, was but more keenly astir: 'As saplings stunted by forest around o'ershading, we two: What work for our life, my mother,' she said, 'is left us to do? Or is't from the evil to come, the days without pleasure, that God In mercy would spare us, over our childhood outstretching the rod?' --So she, from her innocent heart; in all things seeing the best With the wholesome spirit of childhood; to God submitting the rest: Not seeing the desolate years, the dungeon of Carisbrook drear; Eyes dry-glazed with fever, and none to lend even a tear! Now, all her heart to the little one goes; for, day upon day, As a rosebud in canker, she pales and pines, and the cough has its way. And the gardens of Richmond on Thames, the fine blythe air of the vale Stay not the waning pulse, and the masters of science fail. Then the little footsteps are faint, and a child may take her with ease; As the flowers a babe flings down she is spread on Elizabeth's knees, Slipping back to the cradle-life, in her wasting weakness and pain: And the sister prays and smiles and watches the sister in vain. So she watch'd by the bed all night, and the lights were yellow and low, And a cold blue blink shimmer'd up from the park that was sheeted in snow: And the frost of the passing hour, when souls from the body divide, The Sarsar-wind of the dawn, crept into the palace, and sigh'd. And the child just turn'd her head towards Elizabeth there as she lay, And her little hands came together in haste, as though she would pray; And the words wrestled in her for speech that the fever-dry mouth cannot frame, And the strife of the soul on the delicate brow was written in flame: And Elizabeth call'd 'O Father, why does she look at me so? Will it soon be better for Anne? her face is all in a glow':-- But with womanly speed and heed is the mother beside her, and slips Her arm 'neath the failing head, and moistens the rose of the lips, Pale and sweet as the wild rose of June, and whispers to pray To the Father in heaven, 'the one she likes best, my baby, to say': And the soul hover'd yet o'er the lips, as a dove when her pinions are spread, And the light of the after-life came again in her eyes, and she said; 'For my long prayer it is not time; for my short one I think I have breath; _Lighten mine eyes, O Lord, that I sleep not the sleep of death_.' --O! into life, fair child, as she pray'd, her innocence slept! 'It is better for her,' they said:--and knelt, and kiss'd her, and wept. _In her_; Henrietta's mother was by birth Mary de' Medici; the great-grandmother of Charles was Mary of Guise.