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Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!'
Said little Wilhelmine,
'Nay—Nay—my little girl,' quoth he,
'It was a famous victory!
'And every body praised the Duke,
Who this great fight did win.'
'But what good came of it last?'
Quoth little Peterkin.
'Why that I cannot tell,' quoth he,
'But 'twas a famous victory!Southey.
ON THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND.
O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile,
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars
Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn;
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland—and to man!
Warsaw's last champion, from her height surveyed,
Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid,—
'O Heaven!' he cried, 'my bleeding country save!—
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those 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 arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed:
Firm paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
