The Elocutionist (1815-1830)/The Downfall of Poland
ON THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND.
O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile,
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
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 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 surveyed,
Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid,—
'O Heaven!' he cried, 'my bleeding country save!—
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those 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 banners fly,
Revenge, or death!—The watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud toesin 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,
Samartia fell, unwept, without a crime!
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor merey in her woe!
Dropt from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high earreer:
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And freedom shrieked — as Kosciusko fell!
The sun went down, nor eaesed the earnage there,
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air—
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow—
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below.
The storm prevails! the rampart yields away—
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay!
Hark! as the mouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless merey call!
Earth shook!—red meteors flashed along the sky!
And eonseious nature shuddered at the ery!
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 erushed 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 eommotion flow,
And heaved an ocean on their mareh below?
Departed spirits of the Mighty dead!
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra 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!