AND have I lived to see thee, sword in hand,
Uprise again, immortal Polish Land!-
Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind,
And leaves the tri-colour in shade behind;-
A theme for uninspired lips too strong
That swells my heart beyond the power of song:
Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith, Ah! yet your fate's suspense arrests my breath; Whilst, envying bosoms bared to shot and steel, I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel.
Poles! with what indignation I endure
The half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor!
Poor! is it England mocks you with her grief,
That hates, but dares not chide, the Imperial
Thief?
France with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall,
And Germany that has no soul at all,-
States, quailing at the giant overgrown,
Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone?-
No, ye are rich in fame ev'n whilst ye bleed:
We cannot aid you-we are poor indeed!
In Fate's defiance-in the world's great eye,
Poland has won her Immortality!
The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now, Could tear not Glory's garland from her brow: Wreathed, filleted the victim falls renown'd, And all her ashes would be holy ground!
But turn, my soul, from presages so dark:
Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark
That's fann'd by Heaven to mock the Tyrant's
rage:
She, like the eagle, will renew her age,
And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on,-
Another Athens after Marathon,-
Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine,
Bright as her arms that now in battle shine.
Come-should the heavenly shock my life de.
stroy
And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy;-
Come but the day when Poland's fight is won-
And on my grave-stone shine the morrow's sun-
The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow
With endless ensigns ravish'd from the foe,-
Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks,
Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks,
The scutcheon'd walls of high heraldic boast,
The odorous altars' elevated host,
The organ sounding through the aisle's long glooms,
The mighly dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs;
(John. Europe's saviour-Poniatowski's fair
Resemblance-Koskiusko's shall be there;-
The taper'd pomp-the halleluiah's swell,
Shall o'er the soul's devotion cast a spell,
Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast's glance,
And all the scene becomes a waking trance.
Should Fate put far-far off that glorious scene,
And gulphs of havoc interpose between,
Imagine not, ye men of every clime,
Who act, or by your sufferance share the crime-
Your brother Abel's blood shall vainly plead
Against the "deep damnation" of the deed.
Germans, ye view its horror and disgrace
With cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face,
Is Allemagne profound in science, lore,
And minstrel art?-her shame is but the more
To doze and dream by governments oppress'd,
The spirit of a book-worm in each breast.
Well can ye mouth fair Freedom's classic line,
And talk of Constitutions o'er your wine:
But all your vows to break the tyrant's yoke
Expire in Bacchanalian song and smoke.
Heavens! can no ray of foresight pierce the leads
And mystic metaphysics of your heads,
To show, the self-same grave, Oppression delves
For Poland's rights, is yawning for yourselves?
See, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France,*
Has vaulted on his barb and couch'd the lance,
France turns from her abandon'd friends afresh,
And soothes the Bear that prowls for patriot
flesh;-
*The fact ought to be universally known, that France is at this moment indebted to Poland for not being invaded by Russia. When the Duke Constantine fled from Warsaw, he left papers behind him, proving that the Russians, after the Parisian events in July, meant to have marched towards Paris, if the Polish insurrection had not prevented them.
Buys (ignominious purchase!) short repose,
With dying curses and the groans of those
That served, and loved, and put in her their trust.
Frenchmen! the dead accuse you from the dust!-
Brows laurell'd-bosoms mark'd with many a
For France that wore her Legion's noblest star,
Cast dumb reproaches from the field of Death
On Gallic honour; and this broken faith
Has robb'd you more of Fame-the life of life,—
That twenty battles lost in glorious strife!
And what of England-Is she steep'd so low
In poverty, crest-fall'n, and palsied so,
That we must sit much wroth, but timorous more, With Murder knocking at our neighbour's door?
Not Murder mask'd and cloak'd, with hidden knife,
Whose owner owes the gallows life for life; But Public Murder! -that with pomp and gaud, And royal scorn of Justice, walks abroad
To wring more tears and blood than e'er were
By all the culprits Justice ever hung!
We read the diadem'd Assassin's vaunt,
And wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant
With useless indignation-sigh, and frown,
But have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down.
If but a doubt hung o'er the grounds of fray,
Or trivial rapine stopp'd the world's highway;
Were this some common strife of States em-
broil'd;-
Britannia on the spoiler and the spoil'd
Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe,
Still honourably wear her olive wreath:
But this is Darkness combating with Light:
Earth's adverse Principles for empire fight:
Oppression, that has belted half the globe,
Far as his knout could reach or dagger probe,
Holds reeking o'er our brother-freemen slain
That dagger-shakes it at us in disdain;
Talks big to Freedom's states of Poland's thrall,
And, trampling one, contemns them one and all.
My Country! colours not thy once proud brow
At this affront?-Hast thou not fleets enow
With Glory's streamer, lofty as the lark,
Gay flittering o'er each thunder-bearing bark,
To warn the Insulter's seas with barbarous
blood,
And interdict his flag from Ocean's flood?
Ev'n now far off the sea-cliff where I sing,
I see, my Country and my Patriot King!
Your ensign glad the deep. Becalm'd and slow
A War-ship rides; while Heaven's prismatic
Uprisen behind her on the horizon's base,
Shines flushing through the tackle, shrouds, and stays,
And wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze. My soul accepts the omen; Fancy's eye
Has sometimes a veracious augury:
The Rainbow types Heaven's promise to my sight;
The Ship, Britannia's interposing Might!
But if there should be none to aid you, Poles, Ye'll but to prouder pitch wind up your souls,
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