On the Death of the Prince Imperial
ONE, the barbarian javelin laid low,
Unwitting; in the eyes that glowed with life
Extinguishing the smiles they seemed to catch
From phantoms floating in the azure vast.
The other, vainly drugged with kisses 'neath
His Austrian plumes, and in the frozen dawns
Dreaming réveillés and the warlike roll
Of drums,—bent, like a pallid hyacinth.
Far from their mothers, both; the silken curls
With childhood's brightness on them, seem to wait
The furrow that is left by the caress
Of the maternal hand. But now instead
They are cast into darkness, these young souls,
With none to comfort; neither follows them
Their country's tribute, sounding at the grave
The notes of love and the high strain of glory.
25
