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A COUP D'ETAT; AN INCIDENT IN THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER 4, 1851, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: The child received two bullets in the brain
Last Line: Must sew the shrouds of children eight years old.
Subject(s): Death - Children; France; Grandparents; Guns; Murder; Napoleon Iii (1808-1873); War; Death - Babies; Grandmothers; Grandfathers; Great Grandfathers; Great Grandmothers


The child received two bullets in the brain.
We bore him home: the house was small and plain.
On the bare wall there hung a portrait, dress'd
With a green palm-branch that a priest had bless'd.
The aged grandmother was there, alone:
She kiss'd the victim with a piteous moan.
In silence we uncovered every limb,
His lips were open, and his eyes were dim;
And while his arms drooped, listless, to the ground,
A wooden top within his frock we found.
Deep were the wounds from which we wiped the blood—
Hast thou seen berries bleeding in a wood?
His skull was cloven, as a log is split,
The woman watched us, as we tended it,
Crying: "How white he is! Bring near the lamp:
God! The poor curls around his brow are damp!"
When all was done, she took him on her knees.
The night was dreary—borne upon the breeze
Gunshots were heard, that told of many dead.
"Come—let us bury the dear child," we said,
And from an antique chest we drew a sheet.
But still the grandam strove to gather heat
In his stiff limbs, beside the embers warm.
Alas! when Death's cold fingers touch a form
All earthly warmth is vain. She bent her head,
Drew off his socks, scarce sure that he was dead,
And while his feet she fondled in her hand,
She said: "These things are hard to understand.
Monsieur, the child was only eight years old,
And all his teachers loved him, I am told.
When some chance letter reached me from a friend,
The boy would write—but this is at an end!
They kill the children now, it seems; Mon Dieu,
Men have turned brigands, then! Can this be true?
Before our window, there, he played at morn—
To-night, my darling from my life is torn.
They fired upon him, Monsieur, in the street,
While he was passing—he, so good and sweet—
But I am old; I have not long to stay;
Would God that Monsieur Bonaparte to-day
Had bid his soldiers kill me, not the child."
Here, she ceased speaking, for her sobs grew wild.
Soon, she continued with pathetic tone,
"What will become of me now left alone?
Explain me that, kind gentlemen. I had
Nought from his mother but this little lad.
Why did they kill him? Can you tell me? Speak;
He never shouted, Vive la République!"

Silent and grave we stood, with brows all bare,
Trembling before the sorrow of despair.

Thou hast no head for politics, poor dame!
Monsieur Napoleon—so, the man I name—
Is Prince, and pauper; and he fain would own
Unbounded wealth, a palace, and a throne;
Hence, wrinkled hands, to sate his lust for gold,
Must sew the shrouds of children eight years old.





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