Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/272

To plunge his carriage in the gathering throng,
And have it locked for hours. See, brilliant lights
Stream from the Tuileries, and in full ranks
Its officers and servitors are ranged,
To do their nation's honors. From the walls
Gleam forth, in pictured bravery and pride,
The gallant chiefs of France. On those we gazed
With critical remark, and on the groups
That promenaded through the spacious halls,
In costume rich, the elite of many lands.
Ere long from lip to lip the murmur spread,
"The king! the king!" and so the throng drew back,
Each foreign region ranging 'neath the wing
Of its own minister. Can that be he?
So fresh in feature and of step so firm,
So little worn by time and adverse years,
So little wearied with his toils to rule
The restive war-horse of a changeful realm,
Mad on the rein? Courteous he passes down
The extended line, with fitting phrase for all.
Methought, with freer word and favoring glance,
He scanned the natives of that western clime,
Where, in the exile of his clouded youth,
He found a wanderer's home. 'T was sweet to hear,
In the bright throne-room of the Tuileries,
And from the lip of Europe's wisest king,
The name of my own river, and the spot
Where I was born, coupled with kindly words,