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.
The Exile at Rest
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