 | Abaddon, the spirit of destruction ; and other poems |  |
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THE LAST HOUR OF THE POLONESE.
Count Pulaski, banished from his own ruined country, sought fame and true glory by his services in the American Revolution; and fell at the siege of Savannah, while rallying the flying forces of the wounded Admiral D'Estaing.
Vainly in battle's lava van
The highborn Pole had striven;
His warriors quailed beneath the ban,
The doom of earth and heaven;
And Warsaw's last proud spirit fled
Before the Cossack host,
While far and near the unburied dead
Shrieked wildly—“all is lost!”
The highborn Pole had striven;
His warriors quailed beneath the ban,
The doom of earth and heaven;
And Warsaw's last proud spirit fled
Before the Cossack host,
While far and near the unburied dead
Shrieked wildly—“all is lost!”
Doomed to despair, by vultures rent,
And blotted from the earth,
Pale Poland to the tyrant bent,
The child of monarch birth!
And ravening hordes of serfs o'erran
And sack'd the imperial realm,
Where thousand kings in battle's van
Had banner borne and helm.
And blotted from the earth,
Pale Poland to the tyrant bent,
The child of monarch birth!
And ravening hordes of serfs o'erran
And sack'd the imperial realm,
Where thousand kings in battle's van
Had banner borne and helm.
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Wrenched from the heart of nations—thrown,
A felon's quivering corse,
A limb to each accursed one—
Could dæmons spoil thee worse?
Oh, how could men behold nor stay
The bandit league of blood,
The deed of that unhallowed day
Whose triumph none withstood?
A felon's quivering corse,
A limb to each accursed one—
Could dæmons spoil thee worse?
Oh, how could men behold nor stay
The bandit league of blood,
The deed of that unhallowed day
Whose triumph none withstood?
Thou parted realm of bleeding hearts!
Thrice widowed child of woe!
The glory of thy power departs
And leaves thee—ah, how low!
Could one of all thy sons abide
To see the spoiler's sword
Wave o'er the ruins of his pride,
The standard of his lord?
Thrice widowed child of woe!
The glory of thy power departs
And leaves thee—ah, how low!
Could one of all thy sons abide
To see the spoiler's sword
Wave o'er the ruins of his pride,
The standard of his lord?
Let tyrants vainly trample o'er
The wreck of feeble men,
Till Europe quakes from shore to shore
Like the wild thunder's glen!
They cannot break or bend or bind
The Will sublime and free,
Nor chain nor crush the immortal mind—
Such, blood king! spurn at thee.
The wreck of feeble men,
Till Europe quakes from shore to shore
Like the wild thunder's glen!
They cannot break or bend or bind
The Will sublime and free,
Nor chain nor crush the immortal mind—
Such, blood king! spurn at thee.
Dispersed like beams of deathless fire
The hunted Polonese:
Some lighted Stamboul's funeral pyre
Among the hills of Greece;
Some o'er pale Gaul their spirit cast,
And Freedom's voice went up;
And some—Pulaski was the last—
Drank at our trial cup!
The hunted Polonese:
Some lighted Stamboul's funeral pyre
Among the hills of Greece;
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And Freedom's voice went up;
And some—Pulaski was the last—
Drank at our trial cup!
His sword—his only birthright now,
His heart,—his only dower,
His only pride—a soul to glow
O'er Freedom—hope's sole flower!
Pulaski from the ruins sprung
Of empire, shrine and throne,
Back on his foes a deep curse flung,
And wandered forth alone!
His heart,—his only dower,
His only pride—a soul to glow
O'er Freedom—hope's sole flower!
Pulaski from the ruins sprung
Of empire, shrine and throne,
Back on his foes a deep curse flung,
And wandered forth alone!
He rode upon the midnight wave
And dared the ocean wind;
The billow was a happier grave
Than the earth he left behind:
His spirit mingled with the main
And drank its music then,—
There were no mounds of victims slain,
No screams of dying men.
And dared the ocean wind;
The billow was a happier grave
Than the earth he left behind:
His spirit mingled with the main
And drank its music then,—
There were no mounds of victims slain,
No screams of dying men.
He came where Famine held her guard,
And giant Danger stood;
He was his own one great reward
In tent or field or flood!
His eye amid the brave and free
Shone like the brow of even—
The star of empire yet to be—
The Aurora light of heaven!
And giant Danger stood;
He was his own one great reward
In tent or field or flood!
His eye amid the brave and free
Shone like the brow of even—
The star of empire yet to be—
The Aurora light of heaven!
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His clarion voice to wrath awoke
The faint but fearless host;
The lightning of his whirlwind stroke
Restored the battle lost;
His warhorse sprung—ere carbine flashed,
The foeman headless lay,
And on, where treacherous wildwoods crashed,
He held his victor way.
The faint but fearless host;
The lightning of his whirlwind stroke
Restored the battle lost;
His warhorse sprung—ere carbine flashed,
The foeman headless lay,
And on, where treacherous wildwoods crashed,
He held his victor way.
He soared his broidered banner high
O'er Wissihiccon's glen,
And sent his fierce loud battlecry
Through hosts of banded men;
Wronged victor in a foreign war,
He laid his laurels down,
And rendered to a worshipped Star
A glory not its own.
O'er Wissihiccon's glen,
And sent his fierce loud battlecry
Through hosts of banded men;
Wronged victor in a foreign war,
He laid his laurels down,
And rendered to a worshipped Star
A glory not its own.
When torrent War in flame rolled on
To Georgia's pinewood heath,
And dying prayer and shriek and groan
Called warriors to their death,
Like hope around deathbed despair,
Pulaski hurried by,
Meek grandeur in his dauntless air,
And triumph in his eye.
To Georgia's pinewood heath,
And dying prayer and shriek and groan
Called warriors to their death,
Like hope around deathbed despair,
Pulaski hurried by,
Meek grandeur in his dauntless air,
And triumph in his eye.
The siege beneath Savannah's towers
Unfolds its fearless band,
Who count not foes but wasted hours
Dear to a bleeding land;
Yet few in peril now are blest
While thousands war within—
High floats proud Albion's scornful crest—
Who shall the glory win?
Unfolds its fearless band,
Who count not foes but wasted hours
Dear to a bleeding land;
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While thousands war within—
High floats proud Albion's scornful crest—
Who shall the glory win?
Soul of the battle! son of Gaul!
Beware thy dauntless tread!
The bastion shakes—the ramparts fall—
The dying and the dead
Lie mingled 'neath yon trembling tower
Where fires through darkness glow—
On! on! 'tis victory's chosen hour!
Why shrink the siegers now?
Beware thy dauntless tread!
The bastion shakes—the ramparts fall—
The dying and the dead
Lie mingled 'neath yon trembling tower
Where fires through darkness glow—
On! on! 'tis victory's chosen hour!
Why shrink the siegers now?
Where is Pulaski? Where the Gaul
Sheds life upon the ground,
Where Death stalks o'er the shatter'd wall,
And mad Rout cries around!
Hark! Flight and Terror hear his cry
And Glory lights his spear—
They mount! they mount! they fall! they fly!
Where is that Form of Fear!
Sheds life upon the ground,
Where Death stalks o'er the shatter'd wall,
And mad Rout cries around!
Hark! Flight and Terror hear his cry
And Glory lights his spear—
They mount! they mount! they fall! they fly!
Where is that Form of Fear!
Low on the green turf bleeding, dead!
Despair beside him lies,
Fame from his plume and helm hath fled—
The light of all his victories!
Who doth lament the hero gone?
The Patriot fall'n? Two nations there;
Poland, her last devoted son!
Columbia! her glory's heir!
Despair beside him lies,
Fame from his plume and helm hath fled—
The light of all his victories!
Who doth lament the hero gone?
The Patriot fall'n? Two nations there;
Poland, her last devoted son!
Columbia! her glory's heir!
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