And craven Europe fears no more.
He sleeps alone—nor shall he start
Till Time’s last trumpet rings the wave:
For death has still’d the mighty heart
Where fierce ambition made his grave.
’Tis sad to view, when day grows dim,
The stone that closed o’er Europe’s fears:
And listen to the waves’ wild hymn,
That swallowed up the exile’s tears.
The eagle screams his dirge by day,