on the downfall of poland.
O sacred Truth, thy triumph ceased a-while,
And hope, thy sister, eeased with thee to smile
When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars
Her whiskerer pandours and fieree hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn;
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland—and to man;
Warsaw's last champion, from her height survey'd
Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid,—
'O Heavens,' he cried, 'my bleeding country save,'
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweeps these lovely plains
Rise, fellow men, our country yet remains,
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,
And swear for her to live --with her to die;"
He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd:
Firm paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm,
Low, murmuring sound along their banner fly,
Revenge or death.—The watchword and reply
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm.
In vain-alas, in vain ye gallant few,
From rank to rank your vollied thunder flew;
O, bloodiest pieture in the book of time,
Samartia fell, unwept, without a crime.
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe,
Dropt from her nerveless grasp the shutterd spear
Closed her bright eye, and crubed her high career;
Hope, for a season, bad the world farewell,
And freedom shrieked—as Kosciusko fell.
The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there,
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air—
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow—
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below,
The storm prevails, the ramparts yeilds away—
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay,
Hark, as the mouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call:
Earth shook—red meteors flash along the sky,
And conscious nature shuddered at the cry.
O righteous Heaven, ere Freedom found a grave,
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save,
Where was thine arm, O Vengeance, where thy rod,
That smote the foes of Zion and of God?
That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar?
Where was the storm that slumbered till the host
Of blood stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast,
Tiren bade the deep in wild commotion flow
And heaved on ocean on their march below?
Departed spirits of the Mighty dead,
Ye that at Marrthon and Leucra bled,
Friends of the world, restore your swords to man
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van;
Yet for Samatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own.
Oh, once again to Freedom's cause return,
The Patriot Tell—the Bruce of Bannockburn.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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