The Grave of Bonaparte

On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave, The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows, Like fond weeping mourners, lean over the grave. The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle: He heeds not, he hears not, he ’s free from all pain;— He sleeps his last sleep—he has fought his last battle! No sound can awake him to glory again! O shade of the mighty, where now are the legions That rushed but to conquer when thou led’st them on? Alas! they have perished in far hilly regions, And all save the fame of their triumph is gone! The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle! They heed not, they hear not, they ’re free from all pain: They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle! No sound can awake them to glory again! Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee, For, like thine own eagle that soared to the sun, Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind thee A name which before thee no mortal had won. Though nations may combat, and war’s thunders rattle, No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o’er the plain: Thou sleep’st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle! No sound can awake thee to glory again!