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 shalt not flaunt 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 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 couched at ease.

Oscar Wilde