And though across this leaden wave,
Returnless now my spirit haste,
Napoleon's name shall know no grave,
His mighty deeds be ne'er erased.
The rocky Alp, where once was set
My courser's hoof, shall keep the seal,
And ne'er the echo there forget
The clangor of my glorious steel.
Marengo's hill-sides flow with wine--
And summer there the olive weaves,
But busy memory e'er will twine
The blood-stained laurel with its leaves.
The Danube's rushing billows haste
With the black ocean-wave to hide--
Yet is my startling story traced,
In every murmur of its tide.
The pyramid on Giseh's plain,
Its founder's fame hath long forgot--
But from its memory, time, in vain
Shall strive Napoleon's name to blot.
The bannered storm that floats the sky,
With God's red quiver in its fold,
O'er startled realms shall lowering fly,
A type of me, till time is told.
The storm--a thing of weal and woe,
Of life and death, of peace and power--
That lays the giant forest low,
Yet cheers the bent grass with its shower--
That, in its trampled pathway leaves,
The uptorn roots to bud anew,