Just as perhaps he mused, “My plans
    That soar, to earth may fall,
  Let once my army-leader Lannes
    Waver at yonder wall,”
  Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flew
    A rider, bound on bound
  Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
    Until he reached the mound.

  Then off there flung in smiling joy,
    And held himself erect
  By just his horse’s mane, a boy: 
    You hardly could suspect
  (So tight he kept his lips compressed,
    Scarce any blood came through),
  You looked twice ere you saw his breast
    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,” his soldier’s pride
    Touched to the quick, he said: 
  “I’m killed, sire!” And, his chief beside,
    Smiling, the boy fell dead.

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

THE BRONZE STATUE OF NAPOLEON.

  The work is done! the spent flame burns no more,
    The furnace fires smoke and die,
  The iron flood boils over.  Ope the door,
    And let the haughty one pass by! 
  Roar, mighty river, rush upon your course,
    A bound,—­and, from your dwelling past,
  Dash forward, like a torrent from its source,
    A flame from the volcano cast! 
  To gulp your lava-waves earth’s jaws extend,
    Your fury in one mass fling forth,—­
  In your steel mould, O Bronze, a slave descend,
    An emperor return to earth! 
  Again NAPOLEON,—­’tis his form appears! 
    Hard soldier in unending quarrel,
  Who cost so much of insult, blood, and tears,
    For only a few boughs of laurel!

  For mourning France it was a day of grief,
    When, down from its high station flung,
  His mighty statue, like some shameful thief,
    In coils of a vile rope was hung;
  When we beheld at the grand column’s base,
    And o’er a shrieking cable bowed,
  The stranger’s strength that mighty bronze displace
    To hurrahs of a foreign crowd;
  When, forced by thousand arms, head-foremost thrown,
    The proud mass cast in monarch mould
  Made sudden fall, and on the hard, cold stone
    Its iron carcass sternly rolled. 
  The Hun, the stupid Hun, with soiled, rank skin,
    Ignoble fury in his glance,
  The emperor’s form the kennel’s filth within
    Drew after him, in face of France! 
  On those within whose bosoms hearts hold