Paris, from throats of iron, silver, bra**,
Joy-thundering cannon, blent with chiming bells,
And martial strains, the full-voiced pæan swells.
The air is starred with flags, the chanted ma**
Throngs all the churches, yet the broad streets swarm
With glad-eyed groups who chatter, laugh, and pa**,
In holiday confusion, cla** with cla**.
And over all the spring, the sun-floods warm!
In the Imperial palace that March morn,
The beautiful young mother lay and smiled;
For by her side just breathed the Prince, her child,
Heir to an empire, to the purple born,
Crowned with the Titan's name that stirs the heart
Like a blown clarion--one more Bonaparte.