Here sleeps he now, alone! Not one
Of all the kings, whose crowns he gave,
Bends o'er his dust;—nor wife, nor son,
Has ever seen or sought his grave.
Behind this sea-girt rock, the star
That led him on from crown to crown,
Has sunk; and nations from afar
Gazed as it faded and went down.
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 unstable world.
Alone he sleeps! The mountain cloud
That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.
Pause here! The far-off world, at last,
Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones,
And to the earth its mitres cast,
Lies powerless now beneath these stones.
Hark! comes there, from the pyramids,
And from Siberian wastes of snow,
And Europe's hills, a voice that bids
The world he awed to mourn him? No:
The only, the perpetual dirge
That's heard there, is the sea-bird's cry,—
The mournful murmur of the surge,—
The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.
J. Pierpont.
CCVII.
WARREN'S ADDRESS AT BUNKER HILL.
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it—ye who will.