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.
 


1879

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.

Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem |

Poems are below...