Borodino

ONE foot in the stirrup, one hand on the mane,

  One toss of white plumes on the air;

Then firm in the saddle, and loosened the rein;

  And the sword-blade gleams bare!

A white face stares up from the dark frozen ground;

  The prowler will shadow it soon:

The dead and the dying lie writhen around,

  Cold and bright shines the moon!

There ’s laurels and gold for the living and proud:

  But the ice-wreath of Fame for the slain;

Only Love turns away from the revelling crowd

  To her own on the plain!