MURAT TO HIS WHIP.
(1810.)
Thou post-boy's whip, thou old black knotted lash,
Which once I bartered for the lash of war,
Quitting my jogging grays, to ride afar
Destruction's sombre steed, amid the crash
Of battle-thunder and the purple splash
Of blood-pools, on that road whose milestones are
Great victories,—beneath a dazzling star,—
Whose ruts are heaps of dead that gun-wheels gash,
I keep thee that I never may forget
The smoky post-room and the coarse black bread,
The heavy boots, the saddles dripping wet,
Or that bare wooden bench, on which my head
Found quicker slumber than it now can get
Upon the satin of a royal bed.
