[info] source: http://www.bartleby.com/246/641.html author: Robert Browning (1812–89) [/info] YOU know, we French storm’d Ratisbon: A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 5 Legs wide, arms lock’d behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mus’d “My plans That soar, to earth may fall, 10 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 reach’d 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 compress’d, Scarce any blood came through) You look’d twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. “Well,” cried he, “Emporor, 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, Perch’d him!” The chief’s eye flash’d; his plans Soar’d up again like fire, The chief’s eye flash’d; but presently Soften’d itself, as sheathes A film the mothe-eagle’s eye When her bruis’d eaglet breathes. “You ’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s pride Touch’d to the quick, he said: “I ’m kill’d, Sire!” And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.