THE LAST WORDS OF THE SON OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.
"A vingt et un ans mourir sans gloire, quand l'epee que je tiens fait l'Europe trembler."
To die? What strangely awful spell
Those low-breathed accents shed,
Of early blighted hopes to tell,
Of dreams forever fled!
Too early am I called to go
From earth's bright things away,
Ere Glory yet my soul may know,
Or mid Fame's laurels stray.
Those low-breathed accents shed,
Of early blighted hopes to tell,
Of dreams forever fled!
Too early am I called to go
From earth's bright things away,
Ere Glory yet my soul may know,
Or mid Fame's laurels stray.
Ay, I have lived: but none may yield
The victor's triumph praise:
No conquering hosts on battle-field
Their glorious song may raise.
Napoleon's son! Earth's glittering things
To me were all in vain;
Where is the voice, whose homage brings
One proud, triumphant strain?
The victor's triumph praise:
No conquering hosts on battle-field
Their glorious song may raise.
Napoleon's son! Earth's glittering things
To me were all in vain;
Where is the voice, whose homage brings
One proud, triumphant strain?
My father's sword! I know it well;
It is my proudest dower:
Let Europe's trembling millions tell
What was its magic power.
It led him nobly on to Fame;
It won him bright renown;
It brought proud incense to his name,—
A monarch's jeweled crown.
It is my proudest dower:
Let Europe's trembling millions tell
What was its magic power.
It led him nobly on to Fame;
It won him bright renown;
It brought proud incense to his name,—
A monarch's jeweled crown.
Hark! hark! is not that lofty note
My requiem-strain to be?
Upon the air its echoes float;
My father's hand I see.
Faint—fainter grows my breath: my frame
In death must slumber soon.
Let me but share my father's fame;
I ask no prouder boon.
My requiem-strain to be?
Upon the air its echoes float;
My father's hand I see.
Faint—fainter grows my breath: my frame
In death must slumber soon.
Let me but share my father's fame;
I ask no prouder boon.