LOUIS XVI. TO CHARLES I.
(1793.)
The story of thy death is on my lap,
While o'er my head, not thine, the axe hangs now;
And the anguish that once cloaked thee here below
Now folds me in its black and icy wrap:
But never didst thou feel the mob's red cap
Burn like a red-hot iron on thy brow;
Lend me thy strength to bear the last sharp blow;
Lead me, O brother, through the narrow gap.
And yet, why quake? Is not the axe they hold
Above me, the portcullis of the sky?
Beyond it all is amber, rose and gold.
O brother, brother, teach me how to die;
For thou wilt be, so soon my head has rolled,
The first to greet me in eternity.
