"Prepare then to be shot! Go join that death-doomed row." As paced he pertly past, a volley rang-- And as he fell in line, mock mercies once more flow Of man's lead-lightning's sudden scathing pang, But to his home-turned thoughts the balls but sang. "Here's half-a-franc I saved to buy my mother's bread!"-- The captain started--who mourns not a dear, The dearest! mother!--"Where is she, wolf-cub?" he said Still gruffly. "There, d'ye see? not far from here." "Haste! make it hers! then back to swell _their_ bier." He sprang aloof as springald from detested school, Or ocean-rover from protected port. "The little rascal has the laugh on us! no fool To breast our bullets!"--but the scoff was short, For soon! the rogue is racing from his court; And with still fearless front he faces them and calls: "READY! but level low--_she's_ kissed these eyes!" From cooling hands of _men_ each rifle falls, And their gray officer, in grave surprise, Life grants the lad whilst his last comrade dies. Brave youth! I know not well what urged thy act, Whether thou'lt pass in palace, or die rackt; But _then_, shone on the guns, a sublime soul.-- A Bayard-boy's, bound by his pure parole! Honor redeemed though paid by parlous price, Though lost be sunlit sports, wild boyhood's spice, The Gates, the cheers of mates for bright device! Greeks would, whilom, have choicely clasped and circled thee, Set thee the first to shield some new Thermopylae; Thy deed had touched and tuned their true Tyrtaeus tongue, And staged by Aeschylus, grouped thee grand gods among. And thy lost name (now known no more) been gilt and graved On cloud-kissed column, by the sweet south ocean laved. From us no crown! no honors from the civic sheaf-- Purely this poet's tear-bejewelled, aye-green leaf! H.L.W. TO HIS ORPHAN GRANDCHILDREN. _("O Charles, je te sens près de moi.")_ [July, 1871.] I feel thy presence, Charles. Sweet martyr! down In earth, where men decay, I search, and see from cracks which rend thy tomb, Burst out pale morning's ray. Close linked are bier and cradle: here the dead, To charm us, live again: Kneeling, I mourn, when on my threshold sounds Two little children's strain. George, Jeanne, sing on! George, Jeanne, unconscious play! Your father's form recall, Now darkened by his sombre shade, now gilt By beams that wandering fall. Oh, knowledge! what thy use? did we not know Death holds no more the dead; But Heaven, where, hand in hand, angel and star Smile at the grave we dread?