4523838Poems — The Siberian ExileMary Caroline Denver
THE SIBERIAN EXILE.
Coldly the winds blew o'er the barren heath, Where wrapt in garments made of reindeer-skin, That scarce sufficed to shield his limbs, he stood, The lone Siberian exile. On his brow The lapse of years had left full many a trace Of their sad progress—and his sunken eye Gazed vacantly on objects, that to him, Brought no associations of sweet thoughts To wake a kindred feeling in his heart. And what was there around him that could call, To life and light one pleasurable glow Within his bosom, and awake the strings Of that sweet harp within it, to yield forth One trembling tone of ecstacy and love; Not the cold skies above him, nor the winds That swept in fitful gusts the wintry waste, Around his miserable dwelling; not His sad companions in that dismal land, Who passed their days in gathering bitterness? From each sweet flower that memory treasured deep Within her spirit-cells!
Within her spirit-cells! What were the woes Of others unto him, whose heart was full Of grief he called his own that would not bear, Divulgement, though 'twas written on his brow? There is at all times, and in every heart, A sorrow it were sacrilege to chide, Too stern to seek companionship, though all May know the fountain whence the stream proceeds; Like bodies of the old Egyptian kings, It lies entombed within its burial-place, With its own history, and defies decay.
Poland! thy children's hearts are like to thee, Thou broken country! with thy fettered limbs, And wasted strength.—Of all thy numberless woes, Can none so loudly cry, that heaven shall hear, For justice on the heartless conqueror, On him who, while gazing on thy bleeding limbs. Unsatisfied with their dismemberment, Would break with ruthless hand, the tender links, That heart with heart conjoin, like hope with heaven, And send them forth, unblest by tenderness, Unvisited by kind, familiar thoughts, To perish on a miserable shore?
Long years have passed, made longer with the griefs That in them lay, since on that exile's brow A soft, white hand was laid in tenderness, And a sweet voice made music in his ear, And a glad smile woke sunshine in his heart. But these have ceased their office long ago! The pressure of that tiny hand no more Is on his brow—the music of that voice Has passed away from earth, or, sendeth forth, Like a sweet lute whose master-chord is broken, A melancholy murmur, on the air, In tones, that hopeless and uncertain grown, Essays in vain, to reach the heart of him, Who ever held them dear. The smile that caught Its glow from the affections, lights no more The chambers of the robbed and desolate heart, Nor leaveth its faint trace upon the brow; Sorrow hath swept all vestiges away, And like a brooding spirit, keepeth watch Within the ruined empire she hath won.
Oh! why, when all the fires have ceased to burn, That lit the bosom with their mingled flames, Of hope, and energy and high resolve, Alone, will cold and spiritless life remain?— Without warmth-giving beams and strengthening dews, The flower will die—the stream will turn to dust, Whene'er the source that feeds, becometh dry; But life will linger on deprived of all! The heart is too long breaking!—when the love That gathers strength with each succeeding year, And learns to cling to others as its life, Is torn from out the heart—it too should die, Nor thus creep on, counting the weary steps Unto the grave! Oh! it is sad to think That one whose youth gave out such promises, Of stainless courage and untarnished worth; Whose manhood sealed them with the seal of truth, Should thus,, for half a century, wear out His life in vain repinings, in a bleak And cheerless land, where none but strangers' hands May place the frozen earth above his head, When his last breath is drawn, and his last prayer Ascends for shattered Poland! Weep for him! Weep for the heart whence noble sentiments Sprang up unconsciously, like the green tree Upon the mountain-summit; strong in strength, And pure in motive, heavenward in their growth, Giving encouragement to the high of soul, And shelter to the humble. Weep that he, Should be fate's plaything for a little hour! Weep for the noble soldier bound in chains, Compelled to look upon his bleeding bands, And wasted country—and forbid to aid The arms of one, or share the other's fate!
And weep that Patriotism thus should meet Her guardian! Not upon the battle-plains, With banners streaming o'er him, and the shouts Of victory swelling in his dying ear, But friendless, solitary, and unknown, A stranger in inhospitable clime, Whose heart, by drinking deep of poisoned springs. Is dying, but not dead! And shed a tear Of unfeigned sorrow, that the chosen spot From which he started, led to such a goal!
And weep, alas! for him, whose heart long since Has ceased to yield its customary store Of love to fellow-man! nor treasured in Kindly affections, like the dews of heaven, Invigorating all they breathe upon! Nor felt the clasp of kindred hand in his, Nor met the glance of loving eyes whose light Was ever turned on him, as turns the flower Towards the sun it worships! and whose tongue Can claim no country as his own—whose grave, Unmade as yet, in this cold desert, he Will some time find! Whose history, in short, In a few words will be—he lived and died A lone Siberian Exile!—weep for him!
