STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 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, Just as perhaps he mused, 'My plans Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 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 looked twice e'er you saw his breast '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 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. R. Browning. HOHENLINDEN ON Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast array'd To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven; But redder yet that light shall glow "Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye Brave And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few shall part, where many meet; Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. T. Campbell. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring: Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; C. Wolfe. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE HALF a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death, Rode the six hundred. Forward, the Light Brigade!' Some one had blundered: Cannon to right of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well; Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabres bare, All the world wondered: |