The Grave of Bonaparte

THOMAS M. SCROGGY, Publisher, CARD & FANCY JOB PRINTER, No. 443 Vine Street, above Twelfth, Phila. Where all new songs can be obtained, wholesale and retail.

The Grave Of Bonaparte.

On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billow,
Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave,
The hero lies stil, while the dew-dropping willow
Like a fond weeping mourner leans over the grave.
The lightinings 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.
No sound can awake him to glory again.

Yet spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee,
For like thine own eagle that soared to the sun,
Thou springest from bondage, and leavest behind the
A name which before thee no mortal had won.
Though nations may combat, and war’s thunders rattle,
No more on thy 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.
No sound can awake thee to glory again.

Oh shade of the mighty! where now are the legions
That rushed but to conquer when thou led’st them on?
Alas? they have perished 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 thee to glory again.
No sound can awake thee to glory again.

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