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OH! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while,
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
When leagued Oppression pour’d to Northern wars
Her whisker'd pandours and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Peal'd her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet

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,
Oh! Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep 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 array'd
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 sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge, or death,—the watch-word and reply;
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew :-
Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!
Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career;
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shriek’d--as Kosciusko fell.

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;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,

With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my ineal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring,

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing,
In russet gown

and apron

The village church among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.



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 ;
Chasing, with eager hands and

The beautiful blue damsel-flies,
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or fying gems :-

And, near the boy who, tired with play,
Now resting 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount,

From his hot steed, and on the brink
of a small imaret's rustic fount

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,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From SYRIA's thousand minarets !
The boy has started from the bed
Of Aowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping the eternal name of God
From Purity's own cheruh mouth,

And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of Paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again!
Oh 't was a sight—that Heaven—that child
A scene, which might have well beguiled
E'en haughty EBlis of a sigh
For glories lost and peace gone by!

And how felt he, the wretched Man,
Reclining there,-while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace!
“ There was a time,” he said, in mild
Heart-humbled tones, “thou blessed child,
When young and haply pure as thou,
I look’d and pray'd like thee-but now"-
He hung his head,—each nobler aim,

And hope, and feeling, which had slept,
From boyhood's hour, that instant came

Fresh o'er him, and he wept—he wept !

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Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!

In whose benign, redeeming flow
Is felt the first, the only sense
Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.



“My birth-day"--what a different sound

That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, ench time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears'

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