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 waste of snow, And Europe’s fields, 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 cloud’s deep voice, the wind’s low sigh.