The Exile At Rest Poem by John Pierpont

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.