The three weird voices whispered low Where the eagles swept in their circling ward; But only one shadow scarred the snow As I clambered down from Pitz Languard. Boudoir Prophecies One day in the Tuileries, When a southwest Spanish breeze Brought scandalous news of the Queen, The fair proud Empress said, "My good friend loses her head; If matters go on this way, I shall see her shopping, some day, In the Boulevard des Capucines." The saying swiftly went To the Place of the Orient, And the stout Queen sneered, "Ah, well! You are proud and prude, ma belle! But I think I will hazard a guess I shall see you one day playing chess With the Curé of Carabanchel." Both ladies, though not over-wise, Were lucky in prophecies. For the Boulevard shopmen well Know the form of stout Isabel As she buys her modes de Paris; And after Sedan in despair The Empress prude and fair Went to visit Madame sa Mère In her villa at Carabanchel-- But the Queen was not there to see. A Triumph of Order A Squad of regular infantry In the Commune's closing days, Had captured a crowd of rebels By the wall of Père-la-Chaise. There were desperate men, wild women, And dark-eyed Amazon girls, And one little boy, with a peach-down cheek And yellow clustering curls. The captain seized the little waif, And said, "What dost thou here?" "Sapristi, Citizen captain! I'm a Communist, my dear!" "Very well! Then you die with the others!" --"Very well! That's my affair; But first let me take to my mother, Who lives by the wine-shop there, "My father's watch. You see it; A gay old thing, is it not? It would please the old lady to have it, Then I'll come back here, and be shot. "That is the last we shall see of him," The grizzled captain grinned, As the little man skimmed down the hill, Like a swallow down the wind. For the joy of killing had lost its zest In the glut of those awful days, And Death writhed, gorged like a greedy snake, From the Arch to Père-la-Chaise. But before the last platoon had fired, The child's shrill voice was heard; "Houp-là! the old girl made such a row I feared I should break my word." Against the bullet-pitted wall He took his place with the rest, A button was lost from his ragged blouse, Which showed his soft white breast. "Now blaze away, my children! With your little one-two-three!" The Chassepots tore the stout young heart, And saved Society. Ernst of Edelsheim I'll tell the story, kissing This white hand for my pains: No sweeter heart, nor falser E'er filled such fine, blue veins. I'll sing a song of true love, My Lilith dear! to you; _Contraria contrariis_-- The rule is old and true. The happiest of all lovers Was Ernst of Edelsheim; And why he was the happiest, I'll tell you in my rhyme. One summer night he wandered Within a lonely glade, And, couched in moss and moonlight, He found a sleeping maid.