VI.

“Oh, wretched mockery of the forms of State, Oh, farce of Royalty to choke the town! The sire to-day submits his brow to Fate, The son to-morrow yieldeth too his crown; The sire resumes it ’neath Napoléon’s frown, Again to-morrow to resign its cares-- Is’t not, then just--how just! that, thus laid down, The Tyrant’s creature now the bauble wears? The Father lauds the choice--the Son his ardour shares.