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102 Still unconscious of the death of her boy, The grandmother brought him, her only joy, Close, close to the hearth, in hopes that the fire His stiffening limbs with warmth would inspire. Alas! When death touches with hands ice-chill Nothing again can warm, do what we will. She bent her head, drew off the socks, and took The naked feet in hands withered that shook. Ah! Was not that a sight our hearts to tear! Said she, 'Sir, he was not eight; and so fair! His masters—he went to school—were content; He wrote all my letters, on errands went When I had need; and are they going now To kill poor children? The brigands allow Such to pass free. Are they brigands? Or worse? A Government! 'Tis a scourge and a curse! He was playing this morn, alert and gay, There, by that window, in the sun's bright ray, Why did they kill the poor thing, at his play? He passed on to the street; was that a crime? They fired on him straight ; they wasted no time. Sir, he was good and sweet as an angel. Ah! I am old; by the blessed Evangel I should have left the sad earth with light heart, If it would have pleased Monsieur Bonaparte To kill me instead of this orphan child!' She stopped, sobs choked her, then went on more wild, While all wept around, e'en hearts made of stone— 'What's to become of me, left now alone? Oh! Tell me this, for my senses get dim— His mother left me one child,—only him. Why did they kill him,—I would know it,—why? Long live the Republic, he did not cry, When that shout, like a wave, came rolling high?'