AT FONTAINEBLEAU
At Fontainebleau, I saw a little bed
Fashioned of polished wood, with gold ornate,
Ambition, hope, and sorrow, ay, and hate
Once battled there, above a childish head,
And there in vain, grief wept, and memory plead
It was so small! but Ah, dear God, how great
The part it played in one sad woman’s fate.
How wide the gloom, that narrow object shed.
The symbol of an over-reaching aim,
The emblem of a devastated joy,
It spoke of glory, and a blasted home:
Of fleeting honours, and disordered fame,
And the lone passing of a fragile boy.
* * * * *
It was the cradle of the King of Rome.
THE MASQUERADE
Look in the eyes of trouble with a smile,
Extend your hand and do not be afraid.
’Tis but a friend who comes to masquerade.
And test your faith and courage for awhile.
Fly, and he follows fast with threat and jeer.
Shrink, and he deals hard blow on stinging blow,
But bid him welcome as a friend, and lo!
The jest is off—the masque will disappear.
SYMPATHY
Is the way hard and thorny, oh, my brother?
Do tempests beat, and adverse wild winds blow?
And are you spent, and broken, at each nightfall,
Yet with each morn you rise and onward go?
Brother, I know, I know!
I, too, have journeyed so.