Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
 |
 |
|
|
|
BUONAPARTE'S LAMENT IN HIS LAST EXILE. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
BUONAPARTE'S LAMENT IN HIS LAST EXILE.
Sequester'd here, afar from fame,
And hope's enchanting smile,
I spend in woe life, ebbing slow,
On this remote, secluded isle;
Where all I spy is sea or sky,
Round this horrific steep,
And nought I hear but howlings drear
From off the foaming deep.
And hope's enchanting smile,
I spend in woe life, ebbing slow,
On this remote, secluded isle;
Where all I spy is sea or sky,
Round this horrific steep,
And nought I hear but howlings drear
From off the foaming deep.
O lovely Seine, thy banks so green,
Alas! no more I'll tread,
No future morn, to me forlorn,
Can bring the happy scenes now fled.
Thy glades and groves, where pleasure roves,
I bade a last adieu,
When fortune's star, my doom, by war,
Resolved at Waterloo.
Alas! no more I'll tread,
No future morn, to me forlorn,
Can bring the happy scenes now fled.
102
I bade a last adieu,
When fortune's star, my doom, by war,
Resolved at Waterloo.
No pleasure brings the blazing sun,
Though in the glow of day,
Nor solemn night, star-spangled bright,
Can drive my exile-grief away.
Contention's fate I've seen too late,
And grandeur's luring glare,
So here my doom is endless gloom,
With sullen, grim despair.
Though in the glow of day,
Nor solemn night, star-spangled bright,
Can drive my exile-grief away.
Contention's fate I've seen too late,
And grandeur's luring glare,
So here my doom is endless gloom,
With sullen, grim despair.
No more again, on hill or plain,
To me shall ranks appear,
Nor blazing steel e'er more shall reel,
In charge of bayonet or spear.
Keen ruin's blast, my lot at last,
Hath driven me far from joy;
Fate, take my life! but spare my wife,
And harmless, darling boy.
To me shall ranks appear,
Nor blazing steel e'er more shall reel,
In charge of bayonet or spear.
Keen ruin's blast, my lot at last,
Hath driven me far from joy;
Fate, take my life! but spare my wife,
And harmless, darling boy.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |