1856. Paris, From Throats Of Iron, Silver, Brass, Joy-Thundering Cannon, Blent With Chiming Bells, And Martial Strains, The Full-Voiced Paean Swells. The Air Is Starred With Flags, The Chanted Mass Throngs All The Churches, Yet The Broad Streets Swarm With Glad-Eyed Groups Who Chatter, Laugh, And Pass, In Holiday Confusion, Class With Class, And Over All The Spring, The Sun-Floods Warm! In The Imperial Palace That March Morn, The Beautiful Young Mother Lay And Smiled; For By Her Side Just Breathed The Prince, Her Child, Heir To An Empire, To The Purple Born, Crowned With The Titan'S Name That Stirs The Heart Like A Blown Clarion - One More Bonaparte.