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Oft did I wonder why the setting sun Should look upon us with a blushing face: Is't not for shame of what he hath seen done, Whilst in our hemisphere he ran his race? - First Century--On the Setting Sun [Sunset] 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! - attributed to The Grave of Bonaparte [Death] Yet spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee, But like thine own eagle that soars to the sun Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind thee A name which before thee no mortal hath won. - attributed to The Grave of Bonaparte [Immortality]
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