Destiny

1856 Paris, from throats of iron, silver, brass,

Joy-thundering cannon, blent with chiming bells,

And martial strains, the full-voiced pæan swells.

The air is starred with flags, the chanted mass Throngs all the churches, yet the broad streets swarm With glad-eyed groups who chatter, laugh, and pass,

In holiday confusion, class with class.

And over all the spring, the sun-floods warm!

In the Imperial palace that March morn,

The beautiful young mother lay and smiled;

For by her side just breathed the Prince, her child,

Heir to an empire, to the purple born,

Crowned with the Titan's name that stirs the heart Like a blown clarion—one more Bonaparte.

Born to the purple, lying stark and dead,

Transfixed with poisoned spears, beneath the sun Of brazen Africa!

Thy grave is one,

Fore-fated youth (on whom were visited Follies and sins not thine), whereat the world,

Heartless howe'er it be, will pause to sing A dirge, to breathe a sigh, a wreath to fling Of rosemary and rue with bay-leaves curled.

Enmeshed in toils ambitious, not thine own,

Immortal, loved boy-Prince, thou tak'st thy stand With early doomed Don Carlos, hand in hand With mild-browed Arthur,

Geoffrey's murdered son.

Louis the Dauphin lifts his thorn-ringed head,

And welcomes thee, his brother, 'mongst the dead.