You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
        A mile or so away
On a little mound, Napoleon
        Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
        Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
        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"—
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:
         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," the soldier's pride
         Touched to the quick, he said:
"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,
         Smiling, the boy fell dead.