The sea’s wild dash, the tempest’s roar.
Marengo’s cloak is round him cast,
And Jena’s blade is by his side,
But where is now his trumpet’s blast?
And where the soldiers of his pride?
They sleep by Nilus’ bull-rushed wave,
They slumber on the Danube’s bed;
The earth is but a common grave
For gallant France’s immortal dead.
His charger rushes from the height: