He was beautiful, pure, and brave,
The brightest grace
Of a royal race;
Only his throne is but a grave;
Is there fate in fame?
Is there doom in names?
Ah! what did the cruel Zulu spears
Care for the prince or his mother's tears?
What did the Zulu's ruthless lance
Care for the hope of the future France?

Crieth the Empress, "O my son!"
He was her own and her only one,
She had nothing to give him but her love.
'Twas kingdom enough on earth -- above
She gave him an infinite faith in God;
Let her cry her cry
Over her own and only one,
All the glory is gone -- is gone,
Into her broken-hearted sigh.

Moaneth a mother, "O my child!"
And who can sound that depth of woe?
Homeless, throneless, crownless -- now
She bows her sorrow-wreathed brow --
(So fame and all its grandeurs go)
Let her alone
Beneath the rod
With her infinite moan,
"O my God!"