As his restless mind is ranging
O'er the wreck of Muscovy.
Now we catch a murmured sobbing
From a broken heart, and know
That the chief again is throbbing
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At that scene in Fontainebleau;
And the pulse grows ever dimmer
And the heart-beats hardly swell.
In his eye the cold tears glimmer
As he bids fair France farewell!
And without, the gales, befuried
Howl and moan, and wildly crash,
And within the lightings lurid
Through the curtained windows flash;
Now the chieftain's blood flows quicker,
And he mutters, "Tete d'armee"
Now his feeble forces flicker
And his soul has passed away!