‘Ten years have I been a ranger, I have hewn all dread to the centre; I have learned to sift out values; my soul is at rest and free. If that be your boon for danger, on a dull safe youth to enter, Tho’ some may covet the guerdon, ’tis a poor enough thing to me. ‘I choose, might I come and return so, to a cause, a friend and a foeman Staunch, to endure for the rest but as a moth, or a marigold! Let the philosophers yearn so, the king bribe squire and yeoman! Not for my lease immortal the serpent shall be cajoled. ‘To strike her down avenges her slain; but is evil ended? The fashion dies; the function abides, and has fresher scope. What is to be won? He cringes who would seize, were the choice extended, For the risk elsewhere of living, here only survival’s hope! ‘I would keep my lot mine purely, cast in with men’s forever; Their transient tempest sooner than these Sybaritic calms; Tho’ against the cobra, surely, I would pit my soul’s endeavor, Her crown and its lonely meaning I would scorn to take in alms. ‘Rather than ease unshaken, durance that sloth unhallows, Once and for all, in honor, an end: what’s the forfeit crown If the chance of my short term taken run plump on the axe or the gallows, So one brother’s fetter be loosened, or one tyrant trampled down? ‘Why, see! this diadem’s pleasure a Turk might sigh to inherit,-- Heart-beats thrumming; a torpid and solitary cheer; No call to arms, no measure of progress! Well, let him wear it Unquestioned ... I spurned the bauble when I killed your snake last year.’ MOUSTACHE. A FRIENDLESS pup that heard the fife Sprang to the column thro’ the clearing, And on to Switzerland and strife Went grenadiering. Much he endured, and much he dared The long hot doomsday of the nations: He wore a trooper’s scars; he shared A trooper’s rations; Warned pickets, seized the Austrian spies, Bore the despatches; thro’ the forces From fallen riders, prompt and wise, Led back the horses; Served round the tents or in the van, Quick-witted, tireless as a treadle: ‘This private wins,’ said Marshal Lannes, ‘Ribbon and medal.’ (‘Moustache, a brave French dog,’ it lay Graven on silver, like a scholar’s; ‘Who lost a leg on Jena day, But saved the colors!’) At Saragossa he was slain; They buried him, and fired a volley: End of Moustache. Nay, that were strain Too melancholy. His immortality was won, His most of rapture came to bless him, When, plumed and proud, Napoleon Stooped to caress him. His Emperor’s hand upon his head! How, since, shall lesser honors suit him? Yet ever, in that army’s stead, Love will salute him.