Here pause and gaze, ye travelers young and old,

On this dull marble hewn in sacred mould,

Mark that inscription on the graven stone,

Within sleeps he, who stood ’mongst men alone.

Within sleeps he who at Marengo fought,

Whose skill and courage set his foes at naught;

Who led his men beneath th’ Egyptian Sun,

Scarce fought a battle, but the day he won.

Who, living, loved the cannon’s deadly roar,

And made his trumpets heard on every shore;

Who, with his eagle banner, never furled,

Proud Austria humbled lay beneath his feet,

And Russia’s legions fled in swift retreat;

He saw the world, ambition swelled his heart,

He longed for all, nor cared to have a part.

So lost he all, insatiate from the first,

When his proud deeds like fire on Europe burst.

A soldier, statesman, Emperor, toute chose King,

Before nor since has lived so grand a thing.

He died in exile from his glorious France,

On lonely isle, his life a leaden trance;

The sea around, walled in on every side,

His proud heart broke, and so the hero died.

Within this marble rest the mummied bones

Of him who held in life a dozen thrones;

Approach with awe and reverential tread,

Here sleeps the mightiest of the living—dead.