« ПретходнаНастави »
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon :
A mile or so away
Stood on our storming-day ;
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused “My plans
“ That soar, to earth may fall, “Let once my army-leader Lannes
“ Waver at yonder wall,—"
A rider, bound on bound
Until he reached the mound.
And held himself erect
You hardly could suspect,
Scarce any blood came through)
Was all but shot in two.
“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God's grace
“We've got you Ratisbon ! “The Marshal 's in the market-place,
“And you 'll be there anon “ To see your flag-bird flap his vans
“Where I, to heart's desire, “Perched him !” The chief's eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.
The chief's eye flashed; but presently · Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes; “ You 're wounded !” “Nay,” the soldier's pride
Touched to the quick, he said : “I'm killed, Sire !” And his chief beside,
Smiling the boy fell dead.
THE LOST LEADER.
Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat-
Lost all the others, she lets us devote;
So much was theirs who so little allowed :
Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud I We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
Made him our pattern to live and to die !
graves ! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence;
Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre ; Deeds will be done,-while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire; Blot out his name, thén, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again ! Best fight on well, for we taught him-strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own ; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne !
IN A GONDOLA.
In this my singing.
The very night is clinging
Above me, whence thy face
She speaks. . Say after me, and try to say My very words, as if each word Came from you of your own accord, In your own voice, in your own way: “ This woman's heart and soul and brain “ Are mine as much as this gold chain “She bids me wear; which” (say again) “I choose to make by cherishing “ A precious thing, or choose to fling “Over the boat-side, ring by ring." And yet once more say ... no word more! Since words are only words. Give o'er!
Unless you call me, all the same,