III.

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume! Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb;[325] 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; There be sure was Murat charging! There he ne'er shall charge again!