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No! No! The marble still may be
Cold, Cold and Silent – So is he.
The pencil's living hues may bloom,
His fame has faded in the tomb.
His marshalls, in their narrow homes,
Sleep, reckless that their Leader comes.

Napoleon comes! But the Rhine's full flood
Rolls on without a tinge of blood.
The Pyrenees still frown in gloom
And grandeur, on an empty tomb;
And sweetly still the moonbeam smile
Upon the fair Venetian isle.
Napoleon comes! But Moscow's spires
Have ceased to gleam with hostile fires.
No spirit, in a whisper deep,
Proclaims it where the Cesars sleep
Nor sighs from column, tower, or dome,
A name that once was feared at Rome.
For life and power have passed away,
And he is here a king of clay.