That downward as from sire to son it goes,
By shifting bosoms more intensely glows:
Its heir-loom is the heart, and slaughtered men
Fight fiercer in their orphans o'er again.
Poland recasts though rich in heroes old-
Her men in more and more heroic mould :
Her eagle ensign best among mankind
Becomes, and types her eagle-strength of mind:
Her praise upon my faltering lips expires:
Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres!
MARGARET's beauteous-Grecian arts
Ne'er drew form completer,
Yet why, in my heart of hearts,
Hold I Dora's sweeter?
Dora's eyes of heavenly blue,
Pass all painting's reach,
Ring-dove's notes are discord to
The music of her speech.
Artists! Margaret's smile receive,
And on canvass show it;
But for perfect worship leave
Dora to her poet.
The gladsome current of our youth,
Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals, lingering like a river smooth
Along its grassy borders.
But, as the care-worn cheek grows wan,
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
Ye stars, that measure life to man,
Why seem your courses quicker?
When joys have lost their bloom and breath,
And life itself is vapid,
Why, as we reach the Falls of death,
Feel we its tide more rapid?
It may be strange-yet who would change,
Time's course to slower speeding;
When one by one our friends have gone,
And left our bosoms bleeding?
Heaven gives our years of fading strength
Indemnifying fleetness;
And those of Youth, a seeming length,
Proportioned to their sweetness.
How delicious is the winning
Of a kiss at Love's beginning,
When two mutual hearts are sighing
For the knot there's no untying!
Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing,
Love has bliss, but Love has ruing;
Other smiles may make you fickle,
Fears for other charms may trickle.
Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries;
Longest stays, when sorest chidden;
Laughs and flies, when pressed and bidden.
Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
Bind its odour to the lily,
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,
Then bind Love to last for ever!
Love's a fire that needs renewal
Of fresh beauty for its fuel;
Love's wing moults when caged and captured, Only free, he soars enraptured.
Can you keep the bee from ranging,
Or the ring-dove's neck from changing?
No! nor fettered Love from dying,
In the knot there's no untying.
So all this gallant blood has gushed in vain !
And Poland by the Northern Condor's beak
And talons torn, lies prostrated again.
O, British patriots, that were wont to speak
Once loudly on this theme, now hushed or meek!
O, heartless men of Europe-Goth and Gaul
Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek
That saw the world's last land of heroes fall—
The brand of burning shame is on you all-all-all!
But this is not the drama's closing act!
Its tragic curtain must uprise anew.
Nations, mute accessories to the fact ! That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o'er you The lengthening shadow of its head elateA deadly shadow, darkening Nature's hue. To all that's hallowed, righteous, pure and great, Wo! wo! when they are reached by Russia's withering hate.
Russia, that on his throne of adamant,
Consults what nation's breast shall next be gored:
He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant
His standard fresh; and, horde succeeding horde,
On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword,
For more stupendous slaughters of the free.
Then Europe's realms, when their best blood is poured,
Shall miss thee, Poland! as they bend the knee,
All-all in grief, but none in glory likening thee.
Why smote ye not the Giant whilst he reeled?
O, fair occasion, gone for ever by!
To have locked his lances in their northern field,
Innocuous as the phantom chivalry
That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky!
Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o'er the land
Once Poland; build thy bristling castles high;
Dig dungeons deep; for Poland's wrested brand
Is now a weapon new to widen thy command-
An awful width! Norwegian woods shall build
His fleets; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane;
The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be tilled
To feed his dazzling, desolating train,
Camped sumless, 'twixt the Black and Baltic main:
Brute hosts, I own; but Sparta could not write,
And Rome, half-barbarous, bound Achaia's chain :
So Russia's spirit, midst Sclavonic night,
Burns with a fire more dread than all your polished light.
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