Lo! here, on this lone isle amid the deeps,
From his proud height of conquest, greatness hurl'd,
Buried in silent night, Napoleon sleeps!
Long Gallia's boast, the wonder of the world!
Though humbly born, Ambition claim'd her child;
Fate urged him on, his great career to fill;
On him, in war, in dangers, Fortune smiled;
And on his eagles Victory waited still.
By battles won, by policy profound,
Kings he dethroned, fill'd Europe with dismay:
England alone, of all the nations round,
His power opposed, disdaining to obey.
Forced by the flames of Moscow to retreat,
Half his vast host by cold, by famine, dies.
Famed Waterloo beheld his last defeat;—
There sunk his glory's sun;—ne'er more to rise.
Briton! from this sad spot ere thou depart,
Pause!—while his shade complains in Fancy's ear;—
'Had generous feeling warm'd thy Sovereign's heart,
Though Briton's foe, I had not perish'd here.'