Wide as the wind, the voice of fame,
    Hath borne my fearful tale of blood. 
      And though across this leaden wave,
    Returnless now my spirit haste,
      Napoleon’s name shall know no grave,
    His mighty deeds be ne’er erased. 
      The rocky Alp, where once was set
    My courser’s hoof, shall keep the seal,
      And ne’er the echo there forget
    The clangor of my glorious steel. 
      Marengo’s hill-sides flow with wine—­
    And summer there the olive weaves,
      But busy memory e’er will twine
    The blood-stained laurel with its leaves. 
      The Danube’s rushing billows haste
    With the black ocean-wave to hide—­
      Yet is my startling story traced,
    In every murmur of its tide. 
      The pyramid on Giseh’s plain,
    Its founder’s fame hath long forgot—­
      But from its memory, time, in vain
    Shall strive Napoleon’s name to blot. 
      The bannered storm that floats the sky,
    With God’s red quiver in its fold,
      O’er startled realms shall lowering fly,
    A type of me, till time is told. 
      The storm—­a thing of weal and woe,
    Of life and death, of peace and power—­
      That lays the giant forest low,
    Yet cheers the bent grass with its shower—­
      That, in its trampled pathway leaves,
    The uptorn roots to bud anew,
      And where the past o’er ruin grieves,
    Bids fresher beauty spring to view:—­
      The storm—­an emblem of my name,—­
    Shall keep my memory in the skies—­
      Its flash-wreathed wing, a flag of flame,
    Shall spread my glory as it flies.”

      The Spirit passed, and now alone,
    The darker Shadow trod the shore—­
      Deep from his breast the parting tone
    Swept with the wind, the landscape o’er. 
      “Farewell!  I will not speak of deeds,—­
    For these are written but in sand—­
      And, as the furrow choked with weeds,
    Fade from the memory of the land. 
      The war-plumed chieftain cannot stay,
    To guard the gore his blade hath shed—­
      Time sweeps the purple stain away,
    And throws a veil o’er glory’s bed. 
      But though my form must fade from view. 
    And Byron bow to fate resigned,—­
      Undying as the fabled Jew,
    Harold’s dark spirit stays behind! 
      And he who yet in after years,
    Shall tread the vine-clad shores of Rhine,
      In Chillon’s gloom shall pour his tears,
    Or raptured, see blue Leman shine—­
      He shall not—­cannot, go alone—­
    Harold unseen shall seek his side: 
      Shall whisper in his ear a tone,
    So seeming sweet, he cannot chide. 
      He cannot chide; although he feel,
    While listening to the magic verse,
      A serpent round his bosom steal,
    He still shall hug the coiling curse.