At Nepoleon's Tomb

Strange, strange the fates that govern This world of stress and strain, But in the fires of action Fate’s mysteries are made plain.

The sword of Alexander Rose sun-like form that blaze To make the peaks of Alwand Run molten in its rays.

Action’s loud storm called Timur’s All-conquering torrent down— And what to such wild billows Are fortune’s smile or frown?

The prayers of God’s folk treading The battlefield’s red sod, Forged in that flame of action Become the voice of God!

But only a brief moment Is granted to the brave— One breath or two, whose wage is The long nights of the grave.

Then silence at last the valley Of silence is our goal, Beneath this vault of heaven Let our deeds’ echoes roll