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THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND.
OH! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while,
Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd,
In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight airOm Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below; The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, 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'd along the sky, And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry! Oh! 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 Sion and of God; That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar? Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host Of blood-stain'd Pharoah left their trembling coast ; Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below? Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leúctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia'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! Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see That man hath yet a soul-and dare be free! A little while, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of Desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven! Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurld, Her name, her nature, wither'd from the world!
MINE be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
With many a fall shall linger near.
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
And share my ineal, a welcome guest.
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
Where first our marriage vows were given,
CHEER'd by this hope, she bends her thither;
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even In the rich West begin to wither, When, o’er the vale of BALBEC winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play, Among the rosy wild-flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they ;
And, near the boy who, tired with play,
From his hot steed, and on the brink
Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swist his laggard brow he turn'd To the fair child, who fearless sat, Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd Upon a brow more fierce than that,Sullenly fierce,-a mixture dire, Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire! In which the Peri's eye could read Dark tales of many a ruthless deed; The ruin'd maid-the shrine profanedOaths broken-and the threshold stain'd With blood of guests! there written all, Black as the damning drops that fall From the denouncing Angel's pen, Ere Mercy weeps them out again! Yet tranquil now, that man of crime (As if the balmy evening time Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay, Watching the rosy infant's play, Though still, whene'er his eye by chance Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches that have burnt all night, Through some impure and godless rite, Encounter morning's glorious rays. But hark! the vesper-call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
From SYRIA's thousand minarets !
Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
And how felt he, the wretched Man,
And hope, and feeling, which had slept,
Fresh o'er him, and he wept—he wept !
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!
In whose benign, redeeming flow
“My birth-day"--what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!