Classic Poem

This one th' unknowing barbarous assegai
Laid low, and quenched the light of his eyes, which shone
Enraptured at the splendid visions
Bright thro' the limitless azure floating.

The other, with kisses sated, on Austrian
Cushions reclined, and dreaming of frosty dawns,
Of martial drums, of shrill reveilles,
Like a pale hyacinth slowly faded.

Both from their mothers parted: although it seemed
Their flowing curls, resplendent with boyhood's grace,
Awaited yearningly the tender
Touch of a mother's caressing fingers.

Instead they tossed in darkness, uncomforted,
Young but forsaken, and at their obsequies
No sound of their dear native language
Offered them tributes of love and glory.

Not this, O gloomy son of Hortensia,
Not this was thy proud hope for thy little one!
The King of Rome's sad fate be far from
Him, was thy prayer in the ears of Paris.

From Sevastopol white-pinioned Victory
And Peace, her sister, soothed with a whirr of wings
Thy babe to sleep: all Europe wondered:
Flashed like a beacon the stately Column.

And yet December's mud is incarnadined,
Yet are the mists of Brumaire perfidious:
Trees in such atmosphere will wither,
Or is their fruitage but dust and poison.

O solitary house of Ajaccio,
O'er which the tall green oaks spread their foliage!
Behind it rise the hills serenely,
And ever ocean before it thunders.

There lived Letizia, whose fair Italian
Name shall betoken sorrow for centuries;
There lived she, bride and happy mother,
Ah, but for too brief a season! Thither,

When thrones lay crushed beneath thy last thunderbolt,
When to the nations just laws were giv'n again,
Thou should'st, great Consul, have withdrawn thee
Home to the sea and the God thou trustedst.

Now like some household ghost doth Letizia
Haunt the forsaken home: no imperial
Splendours engirdled her: thou dweltest,
Corsican mother, 'mid tombs and altars.

Her son the eagle-eyed man of destiny,
Her daughters like Aurora for loveliness.
Her eager, hope-inspired grandsons —
All are dead all from her breast far sundered.

She stands by night, that Corsican Niobe,
Stands at the threshold whence at their baptism
Her sons went forth from her, and stretcheth
Proudly her arms o'er the wild sea-water,

And calleth, calleth, if from America,
From England, from parched Africa e'en but one
Of all her tragic offspring, tossed by
Death, should find haven in her yearning bosom.