Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns,
And, as the slave departs, the man returns!

And Hope, thy sister, ceas'd with thee to smile, 350
When leagu'd Oppression pour'd to Northern wars
Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars,.
Wav'd her dread standard to the breeze of morn;
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn;
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,

355 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;

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!

- 365

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd "His trusty warriors, few, but undismay’d; Firm-pac'd and slow, a horrid front they form,

Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ;

Low, murm'ring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge, or death,—the watchword 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,
Clos'd her bright eye, and curb’d her high career ;- 380
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,

And Freedom shriek'

das Kosciusko fell!

385

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,

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, 395 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; 400 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, .405

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! 410

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!