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But death's cold frost came o'er her brow;
Her griefs are past – She slumbers now.

Napoleon comes! Go, speak that word,
At midnight's awful hour,
In the Champ de Mars – will it not move
A spell of fearful power?
Will not a shadowy host arise,
From field and mountain ridge?
From Waterloo, from Austerlitz,
From Lodi's fatal bridge?
Go, speak it in the Louvre's hall,
Mid priceless works of art,
Will not each life-like figure from
The living canvas start?
In proud Versailles where heroes frown,
And monarchs rule in state,
Across those chiseled lips will not
A startling murmur run?