|
MY YOUTH was passing, Sire, whilst you among The cradle-wrappings slept; my morning-song Sung o’er your pillow. Winds of heaven have thrown Us both, since then, on heights apart and lone. Heights! For misfortune drear, our destined land, So thunder-scarred, a-nigh to heaven must stand! The north and south are nearer than our ways Are near to one another; and Fate lays The purple round you, and has not withheld Our France’s sceptre-dazzlements of eld. I, crowned with silver hairs, say—praising you— “Well done!” That man is to his manhood true Who bravely, at his own behest, will do High deeds of self -undoing; will forego All—all—save immemorial Honour;—though She seem to earthlier eyes a phantom, more Will follow her (as erst in Elsinore One faithful heart obeyed the beckoning ghost), Nor stoop to buy a kingdom at her cost. That you are aught save honest, none may say; The Lily must be white—all white—for aye. A Bourbon can but reign as Capet’s heir, Or waive his kingship. History is aware Of wrecks enough—of changing battles’ din— Of those who grandly lose, or basely win! Better with honour, Prince, the throne to quit. Than, where St. Louis sat, dishonoured sit!
Melbourne Argus, 1873.
|