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, Clos'd 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 ceas'd the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air

On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,
His blood-dy'd waters murm'ring far below;—
The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way,
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay!—

Hark! as the smouldering 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 Heav'n! 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 crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car

Was yok'd in wrath, and thunder'd from afar?

Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast,
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
And heav'd an ocean on their march below?

Departed spirits of the mighty dead!

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra 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 giv'n,

And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heav'n!

Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurl❜d,

Her name, her nature, wither'd from the world!

Ye that the rising morn invidious mark,
And hate the light-because your deeds are dark;
Ye that expanding Truth invidious view,

And think, or wish the song of Hope untrue;
Perhaps your little hands presume to span
The march of Genius, and the pow'rs of man;
Perhaps ye watch, at Pride's unhallow'd shrine,
Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine:—

Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease, and here, Truth, Science, Virtue, close short career."

your

Tyrants! in vain ye trace the wizard ring;

In vain ye limit Mind's unwearied spring:

What! can ye lull the winged winds asleep,

Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep?
No:-the wild wave contemns your scepter'd hand;-

It roll'd not back when Canute gave command!

Man! can thy doom no brighter soul allow? Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow? Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be furl'd? Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world? What! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied? Why then hath Plato liv'd-or Sydney died?

Ye fond adorers of departed fame,

Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name!
Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire

The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre!