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!