On the Death of the Duke of Reichstadt (Napoleon II.)

Heir of that name
Which shook with sudden terror the far earth!
Child of strange destinies e'en from thy birth,
When kings and princes round thy cradle came,
And gave their crowns, as playthings, to thine hand,
Thine heritage the spoils of many a land!

How were the schemes
Of human foresight baffled in thy fate,
Thou victim of a parent's lofty state!
What glorious visions filled thy father's dreams,
When first he gazed upon thy infant face,
And deemed himself the Rodolph of his race!

Scarce had thine eyes
Beheld the light of day, when thou wert bound
With power's vain symbols, and thy young brow crowned
With Rome's imperial diadem, — the prize
From priestly princes by thy proud sire won,
To deck the pillow of his cradled son.

Yet where is now
The sword that flashed as with a meteor light,
And led on half the world to stirring fight,
Bidding whole seas of blood and carnage flow?
Alas! when foiled on his last battle plain,
Its shattered fragments forged thy father's chain.

Far worse thy fate
Than that which doomed him to the barren rock;
Through half the universe was felt the shock,
When down he toppled from his high estate;
And the proud thought of still acknowledged power
Could cheer him e'en in that disastrous hour.

But thou, poor boy,
Hadst no such dreams to cheer the lagging hours;
Thy chain still galled, though wreathed with fairest flowers;
Thou hadst no images of by-past joy,
No visions of anticipated fame,
To bear thee through a life of sloth and shame.

And where was she
Whose proudest title was Napoleon's wife?
She who first gave, and should have watched thy life,
Trebling a mother's tenderness for thee?
Despoiled heir of empire! on her breast
Did thy young head repose in its unrest?

No! round her heart
Children of humbler, happier lineage twined;
Thou couldst but bring dark memories to mind
Of pageants where she bore a heartless part:
She who shared not her monarch-husband's doom
Cared little for her first-born's living tomb.

Thou art at rest.
Child of Ambition's martyr! Life had been
To thee no blessing, but a dreary scene
Of doubt and dread and suffering at the best;
For thou wert one whose path in these dark times
Must lead to sorrows, — it might be to crimes.

Thou art at rest!
The idle sword has worn its sheath away,
The spirit has consumed its bonds of clay;
And they who with vain tyranny compressed
Thy soul's high yearnings, now forget their fear,
And fling Ambition's purple o'er thy bier.