17
on the downfall of poland.
O sacred Truth, thy triumph ceased a-while,
And hope, thy sister, eeased with thee to smile
When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars
Her whiskerer pandours and fieree 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 survey'd
Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid,—
'O Heavens,' he cried, 'my bleeding country save,'
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweeps 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 arrayed
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 sound along their banner fly,
Revenge or death.—The watchword and reply
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm.
In vain-alas, in vain ye gallant few,
From rank to rank your vollied thunder flew;
O, bloodiest pieture in the book of time,
