 | Prose sketches and poems |  |
THE FALL OF POLAND.
Written on receiving, in Santa Fe, the news that Poland had again fallen.
She hath sunken again into Slavery's tomb,
Like a thunderbolt quenching itself in the sea;
And deeply and darkly is written her doom—
`Her existence is done—she can never be free.'
From the darkness that shrouded her tomb she arose,
And, throwing her cerements of bondage aside,
She flung her defiance and scorn at her foes,
And her banner was spread, as of old, in its pride.
'T was the contest of right against all that was wrong;
'T was the strife of the brave for their life and their laws;
And every soul, to whose pulse did belong
One throb of nobility, prayed for her cause.
It grew like a stream in the rains of the spring,
Or the clouds of the thunder that rise in the west;
Like a thunderbolt quenching itself in the sea;
And deeply and darkly is written her doom—
`Her existence is done—she can never be free.'
From the darkness that shrouded her tomb she arose,
And, throwing her cerements of bondage aside,
She flung her defiance and scorn at her foes,
And her banner was spread, as of old, in its pride.
'T was the contest of right against all that was wrong;
'T was the strife of the brave for their life and their laws;
And every soul, to whose pulse did belong
One throb of nobility, prayed for her cause.
It grew like a stream in the rains of the spring,
Or the clouds of the thunder that rise in the west;
87
And wide and more wide, as the unfolding wing
Of an eagle, that springs from the hill of his rest;
Till there was not a heart, through which rushed the red blood
Of a Polack, that did not bound into her ranks;
Till all hands were united; till like the spring flood
Of a river she moved, overflowing its banks.
Then above her the old banner waved in the air,
Over city and plain, as had once been its wont;
And the souls of her mighty departed were there,
Like the shadows of gods leading on in the front.
But the fetters are bound on her limbs once again,
And red hot, as they clasp them, are quenched in her gore;
And down on her soul thunders misery's rain,
While the blackness of tyranny shadows her o'er.
Oh! shame on ye, once again, sons of the Gaul!
Ye had just become free, and ye might have been great;
Yet ye suffered the noblest of nations to fall,
And lie bleeding and tortured once more at the gate
Of the Wolf of the North, who, with fangs bloody red,
Yet mangles the corse of the stag he has slain;
Oh shame on your souls!—ye had better be dead,
Than defiled as ye are, by this cowardly stain:
When a word from your mouth, like the thunderbolt's flame,
Would have sent back the Wolf to his haunt in the snow,
And rendered the hater of Freedom as tame
As the worst of his serfs, that lies crouching and low;
When you might have been held like the gods of the world,
And your memory kept in its worship and love;
When, had you the shaft of defiance but hurled,
The thunder of God would have helped from above;
That then ye should stand like base cowards aloof,
While the blood of the brave spouted out of their veins;
While their fabric of freedom was shattered—its roof
Tumbled into the dust by war's tempest and rains.
Live on, then, foul slaves! Let your citizen king
Bind your hearts with the chains which ye unto him flung;
But this deed shall, a halo of shame, round ye cling,
Which shall never be lost while the world has a tongue.
Of an eagle, that springs from the hill of his rest;
Till there was not a heart, through which rushed the red blood
Of a Polack, that did not bound into her ranks;
Till all hands were united; till like the spring flood
Of a river she moved, overflowing its banks.
Then above her the old banner waved in the air,
Over city and plain, as had once been its wont;
And the souls of her mighty departed were there,
Like the shadows of gods leading on in the front.
But the fetters are bound on her limbs once again,
And red hot, as they clasp them, are quenched in her gore;
And down on her soul thunders misery's rain,
While the blackness of tyranny shadows her o'er.
Oh! shame on ye, once again, sons of the Gaul!
Ye had just become free, and ye might have been great;
Yet ye suffered the noblest of nations to fall,
And lie bleeding and tortured once more at the gate
Of the Wolf of the North, who, with fangs bloody red,
Yet mangles the corse of the stag he has slain;
Oh shame on your souls!—ye had better be dead,
Than defiled as ye are, by this cowardly stain:
When a word from your mouth, like the thunderbolt's flame,
Would have sent back the Wolf to his haunt in the snow,
And rendered the hater of Freedom as tame
As the worst of his serfs, that lies crouching and low;
When you might have been held like the gods of the world,
And your memory kept in its worship and love;
When, had you the shaft of defiance but hurled,
The thunder of God would have helped from above;
That then ye should stand like base cowards aloof,
While the blood of the brave spouted out of their veins;
While their fabric of freedom was shattered—its roof
Tumbled into the dust by war's tempest and rains.
Live on, then, foul slaves! Let your citizen king
Bind your hearts with the chains which ye unto him flung;
But this deed shall, a halo of shame, round ye cling,
Which shall never be lost while the world has a tongue.
February 1, 1832.
| Prose sketches and poems | |