Cheer, courtiers! round the banquet spread-- The board that groans with shame and plate, Still fawning to the sham-crowned head That hopes front brazen turneth fate! Drink till the comer last is full, And never hear in revels' lull, Grim Vengeance forging arrows fleet, Whilst I gnaw at the crust Of Exile in the dust-- But _Honor_ makes it sweet! Ye cheaters in the tricksters' fane, Who dupe yourself and trickster-chief, In blazing _cafés_ spend the gain, But draw the blind, lest at _his_ thief Some fresh-made beggar gives a glance And interrupts with steel the dance! But let him toilsomely tramp by, As I myself afar Follow no gilded car In ways of _Honesty_. Ye troopers who shot mothers down, And marshals whose brave cannonade Broke infant arms and split the stone Where slumbered age and guileless maid-- Though blood is in the cup you fill, Pretend it "rosy" wine, and still Hail Cannon "King!" and Steel the "Queen!" But I prefer to sup From Philip Sidney's cup-- True soldier's draught serene. Oh, workmen, seen by me sublime, When from the tyrant wrenched ye peace, Can you be dazed by tinselled crime, And spy no wolf beneath the fleece? Build palaces where Fortunes feast, And bear your loads like well-trained beast, Though once such masters you made flee! But then, like me, you ate Food of a blessed _fête_-- The bread of _Liberty_! H.L.W. POOR LITTLE CHILDREN. _("La femelle! elle est morte.")_ [Bk. I. xiii., Jersey, February, 1853.] Mother birdie stiff and cold, Puss has hushed the other's singing; Winds go whistling o'er the wold,-- Empty nest in sport a-flinging. Poor little birdies! Faithless shepherd strayed afar, Playful dog the gadflies catching; Wolves bound boldly o'er the bar, Not a friend the fold is watching-- Poor little lambkins! Father into prison fell, Mother begging through the parish; Baby's cot they, too, will sell,-- Who will now feed, clothe and cherish? Poor little children! APOSTROPHE TO NATURE. _("O Soleil!")_ [Bk. II. iv., Anniversary of the Coup d'État, 1852.] O Sun! thou countenance divine! Wild flowers of the glen, Caves swoll'n with shadow, where sunshine Has pierced not, far from men; Ye sacred hills and antique rocks, Ye oaks that worsted time, Ye limpid lakes which snow-slide shocks Hurl up in storms sublime; And sky above, unruflfed blue, Chaste rills that alway ran From stainless source a course still true, What think ye of this man? NAPOLEON "THE LITTLE." _("Ah! tu finiras bien par hurler!")_