Not this, O dark son of Hortensia,[1]
Not this your promise to your little heir.
For him you prayed before the face of Paris
A fate far different from the King of Rome's.
Sebastopol's great victory and peace
Lulled with the rustling of their shining wings
The little one; admiring Europe watched,
And shown the imperial Column beacon-bright.
But all December's mire is stained with blood,
And treach'ry lurks behind the Brumaire fogs;
No bushes can take root in such a soil,
Or else bear ashes and a poisoned fruit.
O lonely house on the Aiaccian shore,
Shaded forever by your great green oaks,
With hills serene about you like a crown
And at your feet the solemn-sounding sea!
'Twas here Letitia—fair Italian name
Which henceforth in all ages sounds mischance—
Was happy wife and mother for, alas!
Too short a time; and here, O Consul[2] here,—
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