On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows
Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave,
The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows,
Like fond weeping mourners, lean over his grave.
The lightnings may flash and the loud thunders rattle;
He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all pain;
He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle;
No sound can awake him to glory again!
-- Leonard Heath
-- The Grave of Bonaparte
