And the Kaiser’s two sons are two false white lads
That a clerk may beat with cane.
The clerk that should beat that little Baltung
Would never sing mass again.
Oh the gates of Rome they are steel without,
And beaten gold within:
But they shall fly wide to the little Baltung
With the down upon his chin.
Oh the fairest flower in the Kaiser’s garden
Is Rome and Italian land:
But it all shall fall to the little Baltung
When he shall take lance in hand.
And when he is parting the plunder of Rome,
He shall pay for this song of mine,
Neither maiden nor land, neither jewel nor gold,
But one cup of Italian wine.
Eversley, 1864.
ON THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD, KING OF THE BELGIANS [{319}]
A King is dead! Another master mind
Is summoned from the world-wide council hall.
Ah, for some seer, to say what links behind—
To read the mystic writing on the wall!
Be still, fond man: nor ask thy fate to know.
Face bravely what each God-sent moment brings.
Above thee rules in love, through weal and woe,
Guiding thy kings and thee, the King of kings.
Windsor Castle,
November 10, 1865.