Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/467

Rh Better hadst thou still been leading

France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,

Than sold thyself to death and shame

For a meanly royal name;

Such as he of Naples wears,

Who thy blood-bought title bears.

Little didst thou deem, when dashing

On thy war-horse through the ranks,

Like a stream which burst its banks,

While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,

Shone and shivered fast around thee—

Of the fate at last which found thee:

Was that haughty plume laid low

By a slave's dishonest blow?

Once—as the Moon sways o'er the tide,

It rolled in air, the warrior's guide;

Through the smoke-created night

Of the black and sulphurous fight,

The soldier raised his seeking eye

To catch that crest's ascendancy,—

And, as it onward rolling rose,

So moved his heart upon our foes.

There, where death's brief pang was quickest,

And the battle's wreck lay thickest,

Strewed beneath the advancing banner

Of the eagle's burning crest—

(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,

Who could then her wing arrest—

Victory beaming from her breast?)

While the broken line enlarging

Fell, or fled along the plain;