He had put harness on to die,
The eagle-star shone on his breast,
His sword lay bare his pillow nigh,—
The sword he liked the best.
But calm—most calm was all his face,
A solemn smile was on his lips,
His eyes were closed in pensive grace—
A most serene eclipse!
You would have said some sainted sprite
Had left its passionless abode,—
Some man, whose prayer at morn and night
Had duly risen to God.
What thoughts had calm’d his dying breast
(For calm he died) cannot be known;
Nor would I wound a warrior’s rest—
Farewell, Napoleon!
No sculptured pile our hands shall rear;
Thy simple sod the stream shall lave.
The native Holly’s leaf severe
Shall grace and guard thy grave.
The Eagle stooping from the sky
Shall fold his wing and rest him here,
And sunwards gaze with glowing eye
From Buonaparte’s bier.