Or this from Roumania: 

   Sleep, my daughter, sleep an hour;
   Mother’s darling gilliflower. 
   Mother rocks thee, standing near,
   She will wash thee in the clear
   Waters that from fountains run,
   To protect thee from the sun.

   Sleep, my darling, sleep an hour,
   Grow thou as the gilliflower. 
   As a tear-drop be thou white,
   As a willow tall and slight;
   Gentle as the ring-doves are,
   And be lovely as a star!

We hardly know what poems are sung to English babies, but we hope they are as beautiful as these two.  Blake might have written them.

The Countess Martinengo has certainly given us a most fascinating book.  In a volume of moderate dimensions, not too long to be tiresome nor too brief to be disappointing, she has collected together the best examples of modern Folk-songs, and with her as a guide the lazy reader lounging in his armchair may wander from the melancholy pine-forests of the North to Sicily’s orange-groves and the pomegranate gardens of Armenia, and listen to the singing of those to whom poetry is a passion, not a profession, and whose art, coming from inspiration and not from schools, if it has the limitations, at least has also the loveliness of its origin, and is one with blowing grasses and the flowers of the field.

Essays in the Study of Folk-Songs.  By the Countess Evelyn Martinengo Cesaresco. (Redway.)

THE CENCI

(Dramatic Review, May 15, 1886.)

The production of The Cenci last week at the Grand Theatre, Islington, may be said to have been an era in the literary history of this century, and the Shelley Society deserves the highest praise and warmest thanks of all for having given us an opportunity of seeing Shelley’s play under the conditions he himself desired for it.  For The Cenci was written absolutely with a view to theatric presentation, and had Shelley’s own wishes been carried out it would have been produced during his lifetime at Covent Garden, with Edmund Kean and Miss O’Neill in the principal parts.  In working out his conception, Shelley had studied very carefully the aesthetics of dramatic art.  He saw that the essence of the drama is disinterested presentation, and that the characters must not be merely mouthpieces for splendid poetry but must be living subjects for terror and for pity.  ‘I have endeavoured,’ he says, ’as nearly as possible to represent the characters as they probably were, and have sought to avoid the error of making them actuated by my own conception of right or wrong, false or true:  thus under a thin veil converting names and actions of the sixteenth century into cold impersonations of my own mind. . . .

’I have avoided with great care the introduction of what is commonly called mere poetry, and I imagine there will scarcely be found a detached simile or a single isolated description, unless Beatrice’s description of the chasm appointed for her father’s murder should be judged to be of that nature.’