"Philippe!" Ah! boldly written! You admire
Its flowing form, the freedom of its flourish.
And "Vive la France!" To what may you aspire?
What is the scope, Sir, of the hopes you nourish?
Your sire "ignored his Sovereign rank"—in writing,
But Philippe—Roi—de——humph!—that might mean fighting.
Chalk, youngster! Purpose scribbled on the wall,
Not graven in the rock with pen of iron,
Affrights not the Republic. It may fall
Amidst the perils that its path environ,
But scarce to summons of the bravest boys,
Or, like old Jericho, to the power of noise.
Yes; "the Pretender's dead," and who will now
Cry "Long live the—Pretender"? Courtly throngs,
Crafty intriguers, may parade and bow,
But for the People? Will they deem their wrongs
Like to be cured by the old royal line,
Or righted by the rule of Right Divine?
What will you do—save scribble and orate?
Were you indeed—ah, me!—that strong man armed
For whom so long I've waited, and still wait;
Then, then, perchance. I might—who knows?—be charmed
To lily-girt Legitimist ways of yore.
At present 'tis but—one Pretender more!
THE YOUNG PRETENDER.
Madame a République.
"WHAT WILL YOU DO—SAVE SCRIBBLE AND ORATE?
WERE YOU INDEED—AH ME!—THAT STRONG MAN ARMED
FOR WHOM SO LONG I'VE WAITED, AND STILL WAIT;
THEN, THEN PERCHANCE, I MIGHT—WHO KNOWS?—BE CHARMED
TO LILY-GIRT LEGITIMIST WAYS OF YORE.
AT PRESENT 'TIS BUT—ONE PRETENDER MORE!"