 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
368
Napoleon at Rest.—J. Pierpont.
His falchion waved along the Nile,
His host he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while,
His eagle-flag unrolled—and froze!
His host 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.
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 the 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.
That led him on from crown to crown
Has sunk, and nations from afar
Gazed as it faded and went down.
High is his tomb: the ocean flood,
Far, far below, by storms is curled—
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and unstable world.
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.
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,
And to the earth its mitres cast,
Lies powerless now beneath these stones.
Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones,
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 be awed to mourn him?—No!
And from Siberian wastes of snow,
And Europe's hills, a voice that bids
The world be 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 clouds' deep voice, the wind's low sigh.
That's heard here is the sea-bird's cry—
The mournful murmur of the surge,
The clouds' deep voice, the wind's low sigh.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |