Spouter's companion/On the Downfall of Poland

by Thomas Campbell

For other versions of this work, see The Downfall of Poland.

ON THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND.

And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
O sacred Truth, thy triumph ceased a while,
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 twangod 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 bravo?
Yet, though destruction sweep theso 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.
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm.

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?
Where was the storm that slumbered till the host
Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast,
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
And heaved an ocean on their march below?

⁠Departed spirits of the mighty dead,
Ye that at Marathon and Leucra bled,
Friends of the world, restore your swords to man,
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van;
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own.
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return
The Patriot Tell-the Bruce of Bannockburn.