Eagle of Austerlitz！ where were thy wings

　　When far away upon a barbarous strand¹，

　　In fight unequal， by an obscure hand，

　　Fell the last scion² of thy brood of Kings！

　　Poor boy！ thou shalt not flaunt³ thy cloak of red，

　　Or ride in state through Paris in the van

　　Of thy returning legions， but instead

　　Thy mother France， free and republican，

　　Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place

　　The better laurels⁴ of a soldier's crown，

　　That not dishonoured⁵ should thy soul go down

　　To tell the mighty⁶ Sire of thy race

　　That France hath kissed the mouth of Liberty，

　　And found it sweeter than his honied bees，

　　And that the giant wave Democracy

　　Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.

Oscar Wilde