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.


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.