84
PAUL I. IN THE PRISON OF KOSCIUSKO.
Some in the morning of their days, some in their noon of pride!
They recked not of the days to come—they thought not of the past,
This was the day of days to them, the fatal and the last!
They recked not of the days to come—they thought not of the past,
This was the day of days to them, the fatal and the last!
And Kosciusko! where was he, when on that field of death,
The bravest of his friends sunk down, and yielded up their breath?
He! in the thickest of the fight—with broken blade in hand,
He led them on against the foe—that death-devoted band!
He saw the royal standard fall—above his head a gleam,
The quick, bright flashing of a sword—he started—'twas a dream!
The bravest of his friends sunk down, and yielded up their breath?
He! in the thickest of the fight—with broken blade in hand,
He led them on against the foe—that death-devoted band!
He saw the royal standard fall—above his head a gleam,
The quick, bright flashing of a sword—he started—'twas a dream!
It was a dream! but how like life! he wakened but to feel:
The next succeeding act was made of wounds that would not heal!
Of her, his country—of her fate, he needed none to tell;
The clank of chains upon his heart in mournful echo fell!
And to his bosom audibly—too audibly it came,
A sound, like to a dying groan, in answer to her name!
The next succeeding act was made of wounds that would not heal!
Of her, his country—of her fate, he needed none to tell;
The clank of chains upon his heart in mournful echo fell!
And to his bosom audibly—too audibly it came,
A sound, like to a dying groan, in answer to her name!
