19
Low, murmuring sounds along their banner fly,
Revenge or death—The watchword and reply;
Then pealed the drum, 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 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.
Dropt from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career;
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And freedom shrieked—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—
Her blood-dyed waters murmuring far below;
The storm prevails, the rampart yields away—
Burşts the wild cry of horror and dismay;
Hark, as the mouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call;
Earth shook—red meteors flashed along the sky,
And conscious nature shuddered at the cry.
O righteous Heaven, 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 crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar?
