Crowned with the Titan s name that stirs the heart
Like a blown clarion one more Bonaparte.

Born to the purple, lying stark and dead,
Transfixed with poisoned spears, beneath the sun
Of brazen Africa ! Thy grave is one,
Fore-fated youth (on whom were visited
Follies and sins not thine), whereat the world,
Heartless howe er it be, will pause to sing
A dirge, to breathe a sigh, a wreath to fling
Of rosemary and rue with bay-leaves curled.
Enmeshed in toils ambitious, not thine own,
Immortal, loved boy-Prince, thou tak’st thy stand
With early doomed Don Carlos, hand in hand
With mild-browed Arthur, Geoffrey s murdered son.
Louis the Dauphin lifts his thorn-ringed head,
And welcomes thee, his brother, mongst the dead.

So, Calchas, on the sacred Palatine,
You thought of Mopsus, and o er wastes of sea
A flower brought your message. I divine
(Through my deep art) the kindly mockery
That played about your lips and in your eyes,
Plucking the frail leaf, while you dreamed of home.