The legendary consisting of original pieces, principally illustrative of American history, scenery, and manners |
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THE EXILE AT REST. |
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 | THE EXILE AT REST. The legendary |  |
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THE EXILE AT REST.
BY THE REV. JOHN PIERPONT.
His falchion flashed along the Nile;
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while,
His eagle flag unrolled—and froze.
Here sleeps he now, alone!—not one
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Bends o'er his dust;—nor wife nor son
Has ever seen or sought his grave.
Behind this sea-girt rock, the star
That led him on from crown to crown
Has sunk;—and nations from afar
Gazed as it faded and went down.
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 unstable world.
Alone he sleeps! the mountain cloud,
That Night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.
Pause here! The far off world at last
Breathes free;—the hand that shook its thrones,
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while,
His eagle flag unrolled—and froze.
Here sleeps he now, alone!—not one
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Bends o'er his dust;—nor wife nor son
Has ever seen or sought his grave.
Behind this sea-girt rock, the star
That led him on from crown to crown
Has sunk;—and nations from afar
Gazed as it faded and went down.
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 unstable world.
Alone he sleeps! the mountain cloud,
That Night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.
Pause here! The far off world at last
Breathes free;—the hand that shook its thrones,
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And to the earth its mitres cast,
Lies powerless now beneath these stones.
Hark! comes there, from the pyramids,
And from Siberian wastes of snow,
And Europe's hills, 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.
Lies powerless now beneath these stones.
Hark! comes there, from the pyramids,
And from Siberian wastes of snow,
And Europe's hills, 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.
| THE EXILE AT REST. The legendary | |