After, Napoleon Crossing the Alps, by Jacques-Louis David
In wrapped in red, to drive him south
pulled by the compass caisson wheel;
sky points he marks unconquered foes,
onward, upward, on he goes.
And all the world swirls fallow now
encaught new bright in fire glow;
translates into the restless mane,
onward, forward, on he goes.
What of that face so boyish still
that tames the eye's unruly roll;
serenely stern, when bold at arms,
onward, onward, onward go.