Classic Poem

A watch-fire on a sandy waste, —
Two trenches, — arms in stack, —
A pyramid of bayonets, —
Napoleon's bivouac!

Yonder the stately grenadiers
Of Kleber's vanguard see!
The general to inspect them sits, —
Close by the blaze sits he.

Upon his weary knee the chart,
There, by the glowing heap,
Softly the mighty Bonaparte
Sinks, like a child, to sleep.

And, stretched on cloak and cannon,
His soldiers, too, sleep well;
And, leaning on his musket, nods
The very sentinel.

Sleep on, ye weary warriors, sleep!
Sleep off your last hard fight!
Mute, shadowy sentinels shall keep
Watch round your trench to-night.

Let Murad's horsemen dash along!
Let man and steed come on!
To guard your line stalks many a strong
And stalwart champion.

A Mede stands guard, who with you rode
When you from Thebes marched back;
Who after King Cambyses strode,
Hard in his chariot's track.

A stately Macedonian
Stands sentry by your line,
Who saw on Ammon's plains the crown
Of Alexander shine.

And, lo, another spectre!
Old Nile has known him well;
An admiral of Caesar's fleet,
Who under Caesar fell.

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.

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.

I see the antique armor gleam
With wild and lurid light;
Old, bloody purple mantles stream
Out on the winds of night.

They float and flap around a brow
By boiling passion stirred;
The hero, as in anger, now,
Deep-breathing, grasps his sword.

He dreams; — a hundred realms, in dream,
Erect him each a throne;
High on a car, with golden beam,
He sits as Ammon's son.

With thousand throats, to welcome him,
The glowing Orient cries,
While at his feet the fire grows dim,
Gives one faint flash, — and dies.