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THE SIBERIAN EXILE.
What were the woes
Of others unto him, whose heart was full
Of grief he called his own that would not bear,
Divulgement, though 'twas written on his brow?
There is at all times, and in every heart,
A sorrow it were sacrilege to chide,
Too stern to seek companionship, though all
May know the fountain whence the stream proceeds;
Like bodies of the old Egyptian kings,
It lies entombed within its burial-place,
With its own history, and defies decay.
Of others unto him, whose heart was full
Of grief he called his own that would not bear,
Divulgement, though 'twas written on his brow?
There is at all times, and in every heart,
A sorrow it were sacrilege to chide,
Too stern to seek companionship, though all
May know the fountain whence the stream proceeds;
Like bodies of the old Egyptian kings,
It lies entombed within its burial-place,
With its own history, and defies decay.
Poland! thy children's hearts are like to thee,
Thou broken country! with thy fettered limbs,
And wasted strength.—Of all thy numberless woes,
Can none so loudly cry, that heaven shall hear,
For justice on the heartless conqueror,
On him who, while gazing on thy bleeding limbs.
Unsatisfied with their dismemberment,
Would break with ruthless hand, the tender links,
That heart with heart conjoin, like hope with heaven,
And send them forth, unblest by tenderness,
Unvisited by kind, familiar thoughts,
To perish on a miserable shore?
Thou broken country! with thy fettered limbs,
And wasted strength.—Of all thy numberless woes,
Can none so loudly cry, that heaven shall hear,
For justice on the heartless conqueror,
On him who, while gazing on thy bleeding limbs.
Unsatisfied with their dismemberment,
Would break with ruthless hand, the tender links,
That heart with heart conjoin, like hope with heaven,
And send them forth, unblest by tenderness,
Unvisited by kind, familiar thoughts,
To perish on a miserable shore?
Long years have passed, made longer with the griefs
