EAGLE of Austerlitz! where were thy wings
 When far away upon a barbarous strand,
 In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,
 Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!

 Poor boy! thou wilt not flaunt thy cloak of red,
 Nor 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 laurels of a soldier's crown,
 That not dishonoured should thy soul go down
 To tell the mighty 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 crouched at ease.