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His falchion flashed along the Nile,
O'er Moscow’s towers, that blazed the while,
Here sleeps he now, alone !—not one,
Has ever seen or sought his grave.
Behind the sea-girt rock, the star
Has sunk, and nations from afar
High is his tomb: the ocean flood,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
Alone he sleeps: the mountain cloud,
That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.
Pause here ! The far-off world at last
And to the earth its mitres cast,
Hark! Comes there from the pyramids,
And Europe's hills, a voice that bids
The only, the perpetual dirge
The mournful murmur of the surge,
God of the glorious Lyre! Whose notes of old on lofty Pindus rang, While Jove's exulting choir Caught the glad echoes and responsive sangCome ! bless the service and the shrine, We consecrate to thee and thine. Fierce from the frozen north, When havoc led his legions forth, O'er Learning's sunny groves the dark destroyer spread: In dust the sacred statue slept, Fair Science round her altars wept, And Wisdom cowled his head.
At length, Olympian Lord of morn,
There, on its bank, beneath the mulberry's shade,
Then Shakspeare rose !
Madness, with his frightful scream, Wengeance, leaning on his lance, Avarice, with his blade and beam, Hatred, blasting with a glance; Remorse, that weeps, and Rage, that roars, And Jealousy, that dotes, but dooms, and murders, yet adores.
Mirth, his face with sun-beams lit,
Waking laughter's merry swell,
Arm in arm with fresh-eyed Wit, That waves his tingling lash, while Folly shakes his bell.