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215

I.
THE EXILE AT REST.

His falchion flashed along the Nile;—
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;—
O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while,
His eagle flag unrolled,—and froze.
Here sleeps he now, alone;—not one
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son,
Hath ever seen or sought his grave.
Here sleeps he now alone;—the star,
That led him on from crown to crown,
Hath sunk;—the nations from afar
Gazed, as it faded and went down.
He sleeps alone;—the mountain cloud
That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps his martial form in death.
216

High is his couch;—the ocean flood
Far, far below by storms is curled,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and inconstant world.
Hark! Comes there from the Pyramids,
And from Siberia's wastes of snow,
And Europe's fields, a voice that bids
The world he awed to mourn him?—No;—
The only, the perpetual dirge,
That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry,
The mournful murmur of the surge,
The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.
1828.
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