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 chiefs 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.

THE LOST LEADER.

  Just for a handful of silver he left us,
    Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat—­
  Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
    Lost all the others, she lets us devote;
  They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
    So much was theirs who so little allowed: 
  How all our copper had gone for his service! 
    Rags—­were they purple, his heart had been proud! 
  We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,
    Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
  Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
    Made him our pattern to live and to die! 
  Shakspere was of us, Milton was for us,
    Burns, Shelley were with us—­they watch from their graves! 
  He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
    He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

  We shall march prospering—­not through his presence;
    Songs may inspirit us—­not from his lyre;
  Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence,
    Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: 
  Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
    One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
  One more devil’s triumph and sorrow for angels,
    One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! 
  Life’s night begins:  let him never come back to us!

    There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain,
  Forced praise on our part—­the glimmer of twilight,
    Never glad confident morning again! 
  Best fight on well, for we taught him—­strike gallantly,
    Menace our heart ere we master his own;
  Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
    Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!