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Written by: Gregory Corso | Biography
 | Quotes (2) |

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.