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Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that drip

ping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee

bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient

friendOh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps

round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou ’dst leap with

in the sea! Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland; Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard

grave, So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave. Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among!


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The plesant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chining
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,
While at a glibe rate
Brass torgues would vibrate;
But all their music

Spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling

Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican,-
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets

Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly.
Oh! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

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WILD was the night, yet a wilder night
Hung round the soldier's pillow;
In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight
Than the fight on the wrathful billow.

A few fond mourners were kneeling by,
The few that his stern heart cherished;
They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye,
That life had nearly perished.

They knew by his awful and kingly look,
By the order hastily spoken,

That he dreamed of days when the nations shook,
And the nations' hosts were broken.

He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew,
And triumphed the Frenchman's eagle,
And the struggling Austrian fled anew,
Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again,
The Prussian's camp was routed,
And again on the hills of haughty Spain
His mighty armies shouted.

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows,
At the pyramids, at the mountain,
Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows,
And by the Italian fountain,

On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams
Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,

He led again, in his dying dreams,
His hosts, the broad earth quelling.

Again Marengo's field was won,
And Jena's bloody battle;
Again the world was overrun,
Made pale at his cannon's rattle.

He died at the close of that darksome day,
A day that shall live in story;

In the rocky land they placed his clay,
"And left him alone with his glory."


The Grave of Bonaparte.

On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows
Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave,
The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows,
Like fond weeping mourners, lean over the grave.



The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle:

He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all pain ;He sleeps his last sleep-he has fought his last battle!

No sound can awake him to glory again!

O shade of the mighty, where now are the legions

That rush'd but to conquer when thou led'st them on? Alas! they have perish'd in far hilly regions,

And all save the fame of their triumph is gone! The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle!

They heed not, they hear not, they 're free from all pain: They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle!

No sound can awake them to glory again!

Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee,

For, like thine own eagle that soar'd to the sun, Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind thee

A name which before thee no mortal had won. Though nations may combat, and war's thunders rattle,

No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain : Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle! No sound can awake thee to glory again!


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