 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
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THE TEARS OF VALOR.
[_]
[It is mentioned in Moore's Life of Byron that the Polish officers in the army of Napoleon burst into tears when the name of Kosciusko was spoken in their hearing.]
I.
They wept to hear the Hero's name!—
Ah! had they wept to emulate
His spirit's hope, his patriot aim,
Their tears were worthy of his fame,
And they were worthy—of his fate!
Ah! had they wept to emulate
His spirit's hope, his patriot aim,
Their tears were worthy of his fame,
And they were worthy—of his fate!
But tears are toys—are mocks—unless
They rouse the soul which makes success;
Unless they rouse the patriot mood,
Oft baffled, never yet subdued,
Which weeps not oft, but when in vain
It strives to snap its country's chain,
And then—its tears are tears of blood!
They rouse the soul which makes success;
Unless they rouse the patriot mood,
Oft baffled, never yet subdued,
Which weeps not oft, but when in vain
It strives to snap its country's chain,
And then—its tears are tears of blood!
These, from the deep soul's deepest source,
Give birth to Valor's mightiest force;
Wake noble anger; sting the heart,
Forgetful of its sacred part,
That long has slumber'd, to Remorse:
And this to stern Resolve—that braves
A thousand deaths, of strife and pain,
Striving for honorable graves,
But not to weep, or sleep, again!
Unlike that vainer wo, that cries,
Still feels, but dare not seek in fight
Its fierce and fatal destinies,
Though all its country bleeds in sight!
Give birth to Valor's mightiest force;
Wake noble anger; sting the heart,
Forgetful of its sacred part,
That long has slumber'd, to Remorse:
And this to stern Resolve—that braves
A thousand deaths, of strife and pain,
Striving for honorable graves,
But not to weep, or sleep, again!
Unlike that vainer wo, that cries,
Still feels, but dare not seek in fight
Its fierce and fatal destinies,
Though all its country bleeds in sight!
305
II.
They wept the Exile's fate and fame!—Ah! could they but as proudly aim,
His name would be a word to lead,
And they had sprung at Freedom's call
To kindred fame, in equal deed,
And burst their own and nation's thrall!
III.
How vain the memory which would shed
But tears o'er Kosciusko's name!
Far better if they fell in shame
For country lost, and honor fled;
All but the cruel memory dead,
That in the past triumphant glows,
On many a page of living fire,
When peerless Sobieski rose,
And with great soul and mighty blows
Pluck'd Europe from the Moslem's ire!
Ah! sad reproach, such glorious tale,
For those who only wake to wail!
But tears o'er Kosciusko's name!
Far better if they fell in shame
For country lost, and honor fled;
All but the cruel memory dead,
That in the past triumphant glows,
On many a page of living fire,
When peerless Sobieski rose,
And with great soul and mighty blows
Pluck'd Europe from the Moslem's ire!
Ah! sad reproach, such glorious tale,
For those who only wake to wail!
Call up these spirits! Let them be
His, first, who made all Europe free—
Great Sobieski! Next, the pure,
True soul these vacant souls deplore—
The man who strove, with countless odds,
For Poland's own domestic gods!
What think they of these men who weep,
Crawl, crouch, in foreign service creep,
And wake to wail, and wail to sleep?
Their spirits, if on earth, would crave
A future like the past to brave;
Not, craven-like, remain to boast
Existence, to their nation lost;
But in the fierce, unequal strife—
The last sad struggle—still assert
That liberty, more dear than life,
That makes the life's life of the heart!
His, first, who made all Europe free—
Great Sobieski! Next, the pure,
True soul these vacant souls deplore—
The man who strove, with countless odds,
For Poland's own domestic gods!
What think they of these men who weep,
Crawl, crouch, in foreign service creep,
And wake to wail, and wail to sleep?
Their spirits, if on earth, would crave
A future like the past to brave;
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Existence, to their nation lost;
But in the fierce, unequal strife—
The last sad struggle—still assert
That liberty, more dear than life,
That makes the life's life of the heart!
The proper tears, by valor given,
Are blood-drops wrung from Freedom's wo,
Pure, sacred, in the sight of Heaven,
And blessing those for whom they flow!
Not woman's offering—weakness all—
That loathes—yet drinks—its cup of gall,
And downward, step by step, to save,
Sinks from the dastard to the slave;
Then, when the dregs of life are run,
Through all its foul and base degrees,
Drained to its vilest, bitterest lees,
Weeps for the deeds—it might have done!
Are blood-drops wrung from Freedom's wo,
Pure, sacred, in the sight of Heaven,
And blessing those for whom they flow!
Not woman's offering—weakness all—
That loathes—yet drinks—its cup of gall,
And downward, step by step, to save,
Sinks from the dastard to the slave;
Then, when the dregs of life are run,
Through all its foul and base degrees,
Drained to its vilest, bitterest lees,
Weeps for the deeds—it might have done!
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