Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
The Exile at Rest
By John Pierpont (17851866)H
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;
O’er Moscow’s towers, that shook the while,
His eagle flag unrolled,—and froze.
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,
Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son,
Hath ever seen or sought his grave.
That led him on from crown to crown,
Hath sunk;—the nations from afar
Gazed, as it faded and went down.
That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps his martial form in death.
Far, far below by storms is curled,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and inconstant world.
And from Siberia’s waste of snow,
And Europe’s fields, a voice that bids
The world be awed to mourn him?—No;—
That’s heard here, is the sea-bird’s cry,
The mournful murmur of the surge,
The cloud’s deep voice, the wind’s low sigh.