Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we stedfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, And we far away on the billow! 20 Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone, And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, 25 When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 30 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory. _Charles Wolfe._ CCXIII _ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE._ ’Tis done--but yesterday a King! And armed with Kings to strive-- And now thou art a nameless thing: So abject--yet alive! Is this the man of thousand thrones, 5 Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, And can he thus survive? Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fall’n so far. Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind 10 Who bowed so low the knee? By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thou taught’st the rest to see. With might unquestioned,--power to save,-- Thine only gift hath been the grave, 15 To those that worshipped thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition’s less than littleness! Thanks for that lesson--it will teach To after-warriors more 20 Than high Philosophy can preach, And vainly preached before. That spell upon the minds of men Breaks, never to unite again, That led them to adore 25 Those Pagod things of sabre sway, With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. The triumph, and the vanity, The rapture of the strife-- The earthquake voice of Victory, 30 To thee the breath of life; The sword, the sceptre, and that sway Which man seemed made but to obey, Wherewith renown was rife-- All quelled!--Dark Spirit! what must be 35 The madness of thy memory!