4523873Poems — Paul I. in the Prison of KosciuskoMary Caroline Denver
PAUL I. IN THE PRISON OF KOSCIUSKO.
[One of the first acts of Paul, immediately on the death of the empress, was to visit Kosciusko in prison and assure him of his kindness and consideration. He gave him his liberty, and also offered him a pension, which the noble Pole indignantly refused.]
He slept—the Polish warrior slept—and o'er his haunted mind Swept visions of departed days, the glorious, the unkind, When from his hearth the peasant rose, and from his hall the chief, And buckled on the sword, and vowed to die, or give relief;— For the foeman's foot was on the soil,—the soil they called their own,— His arm suspended o'er their heads, his eye upon the throne.
Once more upon the battle-field—once more upon the field, He stood the chosen one of all, the last one who would yield; With love of country strong at heart, with courage in his eye, Reliance in his little band, and trust within the sky. How could he dread a world of foes, who never yet knew dread, With Poland's soil beneath his feet, and heaven above his head?
He dreaded not—his heart was firm—his blade was tried and true, High on the chainless winds of heaven, his country's banner flew; And brave men stood beneath its folds—the fearless and the free, Who to a foreign conqueror had never bent the knee; In hope and strength renewed they came, as roused from long repose, And gathering to their chieftain's side, looked downward on their foes.
Far from his frozen fields of snow, the fur-clad Russian came, He saw before him pleasant fields, and left behind a flame,— A flame from every cottage-roof—a flame in every heart, Where love of country had a home, or vengeance had a part,— Unconscious of opposing foes, like wild sea-waves they poured, To seize a fair defenceless realm, and met instead a sword!
And Prussia sent her battle-blast aloud upon the air— Was there no shout of anger heard, was there no thunder there? The land that Sobieski loved—his children, where were they, When like a vulture from the skies, she darted on her prey? Did they not meet her face to face, upstarting in her track? Well Szczekociny's fatal field could give the answer back!
And faithless Austria too, was there, nor felt a blush of shame, That thus dishonor dark and dull, should stain her royal name. She grasped the sword—yet not for her who needed most her aid— She drew the sword and in the dust her bleeding children laid; When greater came, and trembled not to chain a peaceful land, Why should she fear to break her faith, or blush to seize the brand?
'Twas night—the silent stars looked down upon a silent land, When issuing from a shadowy wood, came forth a little band: The high of soul, the stern of heart, the strong of arm were there; Beneath the stars, around their chief, they stood with heads all bare— Silent, while he, their leader spoke, with firm, yet solemn tone, Then each one drawing forth his blade, all crossed them with his own—
"Now swear by Him who rules above, and knoweth every thought, While Poland breathes the breath of life, ye will desert her not, And that dishonor's breath may blast your souls in every part, If, ere the foe hath bound these arms, your swords have failed this heart." They knelt upon the dark green grass, they took the oath he gave,[1] Then each one solemnly passed on, as passing to his grave.
Now Poland, for thy battle cry! call all thy children forth! They stand upon thy every shore, the armies of the north: Pause not upon thy threshold-stones—a moment may be lost, Let not a tear bedim your eyes—defence is needed most! Dispute their passage inch by inch—each battles for a home— Arm, Poland! down upon thy plains the royal robbers come!
The morning broke—the sun arose and looked upon the earth. And saw the sight of bannered men, all armed and hurrying forth: The bravest of the land were there—the prince and peasant all, Went forth to win the battle-field—to win the field or fall! They saw the foe on every side—they grasped the cup of life, And drinking to the very dregs, rushed nobly to the strife!
The sun went down with closing eye, but the scene it looked on then, Was the rushing on of battle-steeds—the strife of desperate men; From morn till night they mixed in fight, and toiled, and bled, and died— Some in the morning of their days, some in their noon of pride! They recked not of the days to come—they thought not of the past, This was the day of days to them, the fatal and the last!
And Kosciusko! where was he, when on that field of death, The bravest of his friends sunk down, and yielded up their breath? He! in the thickest of the fight—with broken blade in hand, He led them on against the foe—that death-devoted band! He saw the royal standard fall—above his head a gleam, The quick, bright flashing of a sword—he started—'twas a dream!
It was a dream! but how like life! he wakened but to feel: The next succeeding act was made of wounds that would not heal! Of her, his country—of her fate, he needed none to tell; The clank of chains upon his heart in mournful echo fell! And to his bosom audibly—too audibly it came, A sound, like to a dying groan, in answer to her name!
The inmate of a dungeon-cell! must he, forever bound In darkness and in chains, be doomed to hear no other sound? Must these forever fill his dreams, and to his waking thought, Distinctly summon back the things that fain would be forgot? Alas! poor country! well for him, if, ere thy sad decline, Thy earth had sanctified his rest—his dust had mixed with thine!
The dungeon -doors were open thrown—and standing face to face, Were they, the Polish chieftain, and the crowned one of his race! Calmly and steadily they gazed into each other's eye, As seeking there the trace to find—the trace of royalty! And Paul in all his pride of power, looked not so noble then, As Kosciusko in his chains—a prisoner of men!
Yet a noble impulse stirred his heart, too often turned to wrong, To set him free, who bore his fate with fearless heart and strong! And opening wide his prison-gate, lie bade him go once more, And seek the freedom that he loved, on whatsoever shore; But alas, for Kosciusko! the boon was all in vain, While Poland gasped in chains, how could he ever smile again?
↑Before the last and fatal battle, in which the fate of Poland was forever sealed, Kosciusko, it is said, made his soldiers swear never to permit him to fall alive into the hands of his enemies. One of his men, seeing him fall backwards on his horse, after receiving a wound, struck him on the head with his sabre, and left him for dead on the field of battle.
