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I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan,
And learn the future by the past of mán.
Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime ;
Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.
On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along,
And the dread Indian chaunts a dismal song,
Where human fiends on midnight errands walk,
And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk;
There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray,
And shepherds dance at Summer's op’ning day;
- wandering genius of the lonely glen
Shall siart to view the glittering haunts of men,
And silence watch, on woodland heights around,
The village curfew as it tolls profound.
In Lybian groves, where damned rites are done,
That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun,
Truth shall arrest the murd'rous arm profane,
Wild Obi flies the veil is rent in twain.
Wherebarb'rous hordes on Scythian mountains roam,
Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home;
Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines,
From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines,"
Truth shall pervade th' unfathom'd darkness there,
And light the dreadful features of despair.
Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load,
And asks the image back that heaven bestow'd !
Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns,
And, as the slave departs, the man returns.
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 pandoors and her fierce hussars,
Waved 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,
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 generoas 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 farewel,
And Freedom shriek'd-as KOSCIUSKO fell!
The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there,
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,
His blood-dy'd waters murmuring far below;
The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way,
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay!