The sabre glances, and along the line
Runs the red flashing of the musketry:
The cannon shakes the ground, she trembles not,
Her whole sweet nature altered by despair—
But stands her ground, and dies as heroes die.
This was the struggle—then the triumph came
Of the ferocious victor, blood was poured
Like wine at some gay feast; the fire arose
A wild illumination, for it came
From castles, destined ere the morn to be
A heap of ashes, and from cottages
The clustering vine would never cover more.
Crime and captivity were common things,
And tortures strange were heralds unto death.
’Twas an unequal struggle; but for that,
Should a free people have bent down the knee?
Is the expedient, then, our only law?
Must we give up the right, because we feel
That we are weak, and the oppressor strong?
Forbid it, England—by thine own great self,
By thine own yet unviolated hearths,
By the proud flags which in thy churches wave,
Each one a victory by land or sea,
Witnesses and thanksgivings to that God,
Whose arm upheld thee; by thy future hopes
Of peace, of plenty, and of liberty—
Let not thy minister go forth in vain:
The fate of Poland now is at thy will;
The Autocrat will hear and heed thy voice;
England, my glorious country, speak, and save!
35
