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, 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! Hell dry you up with its flames! II. At the meal we sit together: Salve tibi! I must hear 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, And a goblet for ourself, 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 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- VI. Oh, those melons! If he's able We're to have a feast; so nice! One goes to the Abbot's table, All of us get each a slice. 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 Off to Hell, a Manichee? VIII. Or, my scrofulous French novel, Hand and foot in Belial's gripe: At the woeful sixteenth print, When he gathers his greengages, Ope a sieve and slip it in't? IX. Or, there's Satan !-one might venture Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave Such a flaw in the indenture As he'd miss till, past retrieve, |