He trampled on the sleeping Czars.
And Moscow’s sea of fire arose
Upon the dark and stormy sky,
While cohorts, in their stirrups froze,
Or pillowed on the snow to die.
A merry strain the lancers blew
When morning o’er his legions shone!
But evening closed o’er Waterloo,
And death, dread sentinel, watch’d alone.
His eagles to the dust were hurled,