INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

You

ROBERT BROWNING

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:

You hardly could suspect,

(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came thro')

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.

CHILDREN GATHERING PALMS

From A VISION OF POETS

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

UT hark! a distant sound that grows,

BUT

A heaving, sinking of the boughs, A rustling murmur, not of those,

A breezy noise which is not breeze!
And white-clad children by degrees
Steal out in troops among the trees,

Fair little children, morning-bright, -
With faces grave, yet soft to sight,
Expressive of restrained delight.

Some plucked the palm-boughs within reach,
And others leapt up high to catch
The upper boughs, and shake from each

A rain of dew, till, wetted so,

The child that held the branch let go,
And it swang backward with a flow

Of faster drippings, then I knew
The children laughed; but the laugh flew
From its own chirrup as might do

A frightened song-bird; and a child Who seemed the chief, said, very mild, "Hush! keep this morning undefiled."

His eyes rebuked them from calm spheres;
His soul upon his brow appears,

In waiting for more holy years.

I called the child to me, and said,

"What are your palms for?" "To be spread,' He answered, "on a poet dead.

"The poet died last month, and now

The world, which had been somewhat slow

In honouring his living brow,

"Commands the palms; they must be strown

On his new marble very soon,
In a procession of the town."