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Translated by C. T. Brooks
A WATCH-FIRE on a sandy waste— | |
| Two trenches—arms in stack— | |
| A pyramid of bayonets— | |
| Napoleon’s bivouac! | |
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| Yonder the stately grenadiers | 5 |
| Of Kleber’s vanguard see! | |
| The general to inspect them sits— | |
| Close by the blaze sits he. | |
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| Upon his weary knee the chart, | |
| There, by the glowing heap, | 10 |
| Softly the mighty Bonaparte | |
| Sinks, like a child to sleep. | |
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| And stretched on cloak and cannon, | |
| His soldiers, too, sleep well, | |
| And, leaning on his musket, nods | 15 |
| The very sentinel. | |
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| Sleep on, ye weary warriors, sleep! | |
| Sleep out your last hard fight! | |
| Mute, shadowy sentinels shall keep | |
| Watch round your trench to-night. | 20 |
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| Let Murad’s horsemen dash along! | |
| Let man and steed come on! | |
| To guard your line stalks many a strong | |
| And stalwart Champion. | |
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| A Mede stands guard, who with you rode | 25 |
| When you from Thebes marched back, | |
| Who after King Cambyses strode, | |
| Hard in his chariot’s track. | |
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| A stately Macedonian | |
| Stands sentry by your line, | 30 |
| Who saw on Ammon’s plain the crown | |
| Of Alexander shine. | |
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| And, lo! another spectre! | |
| Old Nile has known him well; | |
| An Admiral of Cæsar’s fleet, | 35 |
| Who under Cæsar fell. | |
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| The graves of earth’s old lords, who sleep | |
| Beneath the desert-sands, | |
| Send forth their dead, his guard to keep, | |
| Who now the world commands. | 40 |
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| They stir, they wake, their places take | |
| Around the midnight flame; | |
| The sand and mould I see them shake | |
| From many a mail-clad frame. | |
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| I see the ancient armor gleam | 45 |
| With wild and lurid light; | |
| Old, bloody purple mantles stream | |
| Out on the winds of night. | |
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| They float and flap around a brow | |
| By boiling passion stirred; | 50 |
| The hero, as in anger, now, | |
| Deep-breathing, grasps his sword. | |
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| He dreams;—a hundred realms, in dream, | |
| Erect him each a throne; | |
| High on a car, with golden beam, | 55 |
| He sits as Ammon’s son. | |
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| With thousand throats, to welcome him | |
| The glowing Orient cries, | |
| While at his feet the fire grows dim, | |
| Gives one faint flash—and dies. | 60 |
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