And loose is the watch which the sentinels keep:
'Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze
Of that mid-winter night on the flat Cremonese;
A fig for precaution!—Prince Eugene sits down
In winter cantonments round Mantua town!
II.
Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain,
Horse, foot, and dragoons, are defiling amain.
"That flash!" said Prince Eugene: "Count Merci, push on"—
Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone.