Sire ! to thy capital thou shalt come back, Without

the battle's tocsin and wild stir, Beneath the arch drawn by eight steeds coal black, Dress'd like an emperor.

Through this same portal, God accompanying, Sire I thou shalt come upon thy car of State, Like Charlemagne a high ensaiuted king, Like Cresar wondrous great.

On thy gold sceptre to be vanquished never, Thy crimson-beaked bird shall shine anon ; Upon thy mantle all thy bees ashiver Shall twinkle in the sun.

Paris shall light up all her high and hundred Tow'rs, shall speak out with all her tones sublime ; Bells, clarirns, rolling drums shall all be thunder'd In music at a time.

A mighty people, pale, with steps that falter, Shall come to thee, by one attraction drawn, Awe-stricken as a priest before the altar, Glad as a child at dawn.

A people who would lay all laws e'er sung Or storied at thy feet, aye floating on Intoxicate from Bonaparte the young To old Napoleon.

Then a new army, burning for the advance, In exploit terrible, round thy car shall cry Amain Vive l'Empereur " and " Vive la France 1" And seeing thee pass by,

* Translated from Victor Hugo.

Chief of the mighty Empire ! down shall fall People and troops ; but thou before their view Shalt not be able to stoop down at all • With "I am pleased at you."* An acclamation, tender, lofty, sweet, A heart-song high as ecstacy can bear it, Shall fill, 0 Captain mine ! the city's street, But thou shalt never hear it.

Stern grenadiers the veterans we admire, Mute thy steed's steps shall kiss—albeit A sight pathetic, beautiful, yet, Sire !

Your Majesty shall not see it.

While round thy form gigantic like a friend France and the world awake, ih shadows deep, Here in thy Paris ever world without end Thou shalt lie fast asleep.

Aye, fast asleep, with that same sullen slumber, Those heavy dreams that on his stone-chain fix The Barbarossa sitting out that number Of centuries now six.

Thy sword beside thee, and thine eyelids close, Thy hand yet moved by Bertrand's kiss—the last, Upon the bed whence sleeper never rose Thou shalt be stretch'd full fast.

Like to those soldiers, marching bolt upright So often after thee to field or town, Who, by the wind of battle touch'd one night, Suddenly laid them down.

Like sleepers, not like those whose race is run, With grave proud attitude of armed men ; But them that voice of dawn, the morning gun, Shall never wake again.

Yea, so much like, that seeing thee all ice, Like a mute god permitting adoration, They who came smiling, love-drunk, in a trice Shall raise a lamentation.

Sire! at that moment thou for kingdom meet, Shalt have all beating hearts to be thine own; Nations shall make thy phantom take his seat, A universal throne.

Poets select upon their knees in dust Shall hail thee far diviner than of old, And gild thine altar, stained by hands unjust,

With a sublimer gold.

The clouds shall pass away from thy great glory, Nothing to trouble it for aye shall come ; It shall expand itself o'er all our story, Like a vast azure dome.

Yea, thou shalt be to all a presence solemn, Both good and great—to France an exile high And calm,—a brass Colossus on thy column To every stranger's eye.

But thou, the while the sacred pomp shall lead A cortege such as time hath never heard, So that all eyes shall seem to see indeed A vanished world upstirr'd ; The while they hear (hard by the wondrous dome Where shadows keep the great names that men mark In Paris still) the old guns growling home Their master with a bark ; The while thy name without a peer shall soar Illustrious, beautiful, to heav'n,—alt! thou Shalt in the darkness feel for evermore The grave-worm on thy brow 1 W. A.