Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/136

We stood silent, heads low, hearts full of grief,
Trembling before a sorrow past relief.

Mother, you understand no politics,—
Monsieur Napoleon, that's his true name, sticks
To his rights. Look, he is poor, and a prince,
He loves palaces he enjoyed long since,
It suits him to have horses, servants, gold
For his table, his hunt, his play high and bold,
His alcove rich-decked, his furniture brave,
And by the same occasion he may save
The Family, Society, and the Church;
Should not the eagle on the high rock perch?
Should he not take advantage of the time
When all ends can be served? 'Twould be a crime.
He must have Saint-Cloud bedecked with the rose
Where Prefects and Mayors may kiss his toes.
And so it is,—that old grandmothers must
Trail their grey hair in the mire and the dust,
While they sew with fingers trembling and cold,
The shroud of poor children, seven years old.