They'll talk of HIM for years to come,
In cottage chronicle and tale;
When for aught else renown is dumb,
His legend shall prevail!
Then in the hamlet's honoured chair
Shall sit some aged dame,
Teaching to lowly clown and villager
That narrative of fame.
'Tis true, they'll say, his gorgeous throne
France bled to raise;
But he was all our own!
Mother! say something in his praise —
O speak of him always!

" I saw him pass: his was a host:
Countless beyond your young imaginings —
My children, he could boast
A train of conquered kings!
And when he came this road,
'Twas on my bridal day.
He wore, for near to him I stood,
Cocked hat and surcoat grey.
I blushed; he said, " Be of good cheer!
Courage, my dear!"
That was his very word. " —
Mother! O then this really occurred,
And you his voice could hear!

" A year rolled on, when next at Paris I,
Lone woman that I am,
Saw him pass by,
Girt with his peers, to kneel at Notre Dame.
I knew by merry chime and signal gun,
God granted him a son,
And O! I wept for joy!
For why not weep when warrior-men did,
Who gazed upon that sight so splendid,
And blest th' imperial boy?
Never did noonday sun shine out so bright!
O what a sight! " —
Mother! for you that must have been
A glorious scene!

" But when all Europe's gathered strength
Burst o'er the French frontier at length,
'Twill scarcely be believed
What wonders, single-handed, he achieved.
Such general ne'er lived!
One evening on my threshold stood
A guest — ' TWAS HE ! Of warriors few
He had a toil-worn retinue.
He flung himself into this chair of wood,
Muttering, meantime, with fearful air,
" Quelle guere! oh, quelle guerre!" " —
Mother! and did our emperor sit there,
Upon that very chair?

" He said, " Give me some food." —
Brown loaf I gave, and homely wine,
And made the kindling fireblocks shine,
To dry his cloak with wet bedewed,
Soon by the bonny blaze he slept,
Then waking chid me (for I wept),
" Courage!" he cried, " I'll strike for all
Under the sacred wall
Of France's noble capital!"
Those were his words: I've treasured up
With pride that same wine-cup;
And for its weight in gold
It never shall be sold! " —
Mother! on that proud relic let us gaze.
O keep that cup always!

" But, through some fatal witchery,
He, whom A Pope had crowned and blest,
Perished, my sons! by foulest treachery:
Cast on an isle far in the lonely West.
Long time sad rumours were afloat —
The fatal tidings we would spurn,
Still hoping from that isle remote
Once more our hero would return.
But when the dark announcement drew
Tears from the virtuous and the brave —
When the sad whisper proved too true,
A flood of grief I to his memory gave.
Peace to the glorious dead! " —
Mother! may God his fullest blessing shed
Upon your aged head!