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GRAVE OF BONAPARTE. On a desolate isle in the midst of the deep. Where the howling winds never are calm in their sleep. Where the mighty waves roll in their bright-crested foam. And the daring sea-bird o'er the dark waters roam, The hero of Austerlitz sleeps in his grave, From the scenes of his glory far over the wave. The clarion may sound in the death-dealing strife, Yet it never will wake brave Napoleon to life. Thy name, noble chieftain, shall ever remain Enrolled with your deeds on the bright scroll of fame; Oh. spirit of Lodi, when others did quail, With your flat! you rushed on thro' the dread battle's hail- Thy soul, tho' departed, looks down from on high, To the glory of France, for which thou didst die. And thy spirit may hover o'er the fields that you won, But your triumphs are over, your battles are done. The morning is breaking o'er land and o'er sea, The light waves are dancing with brightness and glee. When far in the distance the cannon's loud boom Re-echoes with joy o'er the Emperor's tomb. 'Tis the fleet of a prince-from his home he doth come To bear back with honor his country's proud son. He heeds not the joy of that brave happy band As they take him with pomp to his own native land.
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