PAUL I. IN THE PRISON OF KOSCIUSKO.
85
The inmate of a dungeon-cell! must he, forever bound
In darkness and in chains, be doomed to hear no other sound?
Must these forever fill his dreams, and to his waking thought,
Distinctly summon back the things that fain would be forgot?
Alas! poor country! well for him, if, ere thy sad decline,
Thy earth had sanctified his rest—his dust had mixed with thine!
In darkness and in chains, be doomed to hear no other sound?
Must these forever fill his dreams, and to his waking thought,
Distinctly summon back the things that fain would be forgot?
Alas! poor country! well for him, if, ere thy sad decline,
Thy earth had sanctified his rest—his dust had mixed with thine!
The dungeon -doors were open thrown—and standing face to face,
Were they, the Polish chieftain, and the crowned one of his race!
Calmly and steadily they gazed into each other's eye,
As seeking there the trace to find—the trace of royalty!
And Paul in all his pride of power, looked not so noble then,
As Kosciusko in his chains—a prisoner of men!
Were they, the Polish chieftain, and the crowned one of his race!
Calmly and steadily they gazed into each other's eye,
As seeking there the trace to find—the trace of royalty!
And Paul in all his pride of power, looked not so noble then,
As Kosciusko in his chains—a prisoner of men!
Yet a noble impulse stirred his heart, too often turned to wrong,
To set him free, who bore his fate with fearless heart and strong!
To set him free, who bore his fate with fearless heart and strong!
