The fitful dream of life is o’er,
And oh! that eye that beamed so bright,
Shall never wake to glory more.
Beneath the mountain’s misty head,
Where streamed the lava’s burning tide.
They made the scourge of Europe’s bed,
And laid his falchion by his side.
He sleeps alone, as sweetly now
As they who fell by Neva’s shore:
And peasants near him guide the plough,