Poems.
59
The flick'ring torch still higher soars And fills with light the tomb.
He sits upon the marble throne So sad, so stern, so great!Upon his head the glittering crown, Clothed in his robes of state.The sceptre in his withered hand, The dead eyes seem to glance,As though he still ruled o'er the land, Great Charlemagne of France!
Hush! See the knights are bending low In humbled earnest prayer,Their homage yielding pale they bow Before the greatnesss there!And Otto's haughty form reveals He owns the Kingly power,Out to the midnight air he reels And seals, that very hour,The vault anew; In silent gloom They place each massive stone,And once again, within his tomb, The Emperor sits alone!
But since that awful midnight hour The Emperor Otto seemsDumb from some overshadowing power, And dead to youth's bright dreams.
