INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. I. You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoléon 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. II Just as perhaps he mused "My plans Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew Until he reached the mound. III. 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. IV. "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. V. 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!" 66 Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, Sire!" And, his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER. I. GR-R-R-there go, my heart's abhorrence! II At the meal we sit together: Salve tibi! I must hear Wise talk of the kind of weather, What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout? III. Whew! We'll have our platter burnished, Laid with care on our own shelf! With a fire-new spoon we 're furnished, Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere 'tis fit to touch our chapsMarked with L. for our initial! (He, he! There his lily snaps !) IV. Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores Squats outside the Convent bank, With Sanchicha, telling stories, Steeping tresses in the tank, Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs, V. When he finishes refection, Knife and fork he never lays Drinking watered orange-pulp- While he drains his at one gulp! VI. Oh, those melons! If he's able How go on your flowers? None double? Not one fruit-sort can you spy ? Strange And I, too, at such trouble, Keep 'em close-nipped on the sly! VII. There's a great text in Galatians, If I trip him just a-dying, Sure of Heaven as sure can be, Spin him round and send him flying VIII. Or, my scrofulous French novel, At the woeful sixteenth print, IX. Or, there's Satan!-one might venture Pledge one's soul to him, Such a flaw in the indenture yet leave As he 'd miss till, past retrieve, |