His falchion flashed along the Nile;- <br />His hosts he led through Alpine snows;- <br />O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while, <br />His eagle flag unrolled,-and froze. <br /> <br /> <br />Here sleeps he now, alone;-not one <br />Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, <br />Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son, <br />Hath ever seen or sought his grave. <br /> <br /> <br />Here sleeps he now alone;-the star, <br />That led him on from crown to crown, <br />Hath sunk;-the nations from afar <br />Gazed, as it faded and went down. <br /> <br /> <br />He sleeps alone;-the mountain cloud <br />That night hangs round him, and the breath <br />Of morning scatters, is the shroud <br />That wraps his martial form in death. <br /> <br /> <br />High is his couch;-the ocean flood <br />Far, far below by storms is curled, <br />As round him heaved, while high he stood, <br />A stormy and inconstant world. <br /> <br /> <br />Hark! Comes there from the Pyramids, <br />And from Siberia's wastes of snow, <br />And Europe's fields, a voice that bids <br />The world he awed to mourn him?-No;- <br /> <br /> <br />The only, the perpetual dirge, <br />That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry, <br />The mournful murmur of the surge, <br />The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.<br /><br />John Pierpont<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-exile-at-rest/
