 | The appeal of Poland |  |
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THE APPEAL OF POLAND.
AN ODE.
I
From the bright fields where poets and patriots roveThe laurel-crown'd spirit of Casimir came;
The nymphs of Elysium his vesture had wove,
And his gold hair shone bright o'er his eyelid of flame.
On the green banks of Vistula sadly he stood,
Where Warsaw looks down on the blue-rolling wave,
And the breezes of evening were mute in the wood,
As he pour'd his deep sigh to the land of the brave.
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II
“Oh Poland! my country! thy glories are pale,“And the hearts that watch'd o'er thee are slumb'ring in death,
“And the war-shout of Freedom, that floats on the gale,
“Awakens not thee with its once-stirring breath.
“Thou art fall'n in the field, but thy race is not run;
“Thy body is fled, but thy soul cannot die;
“And the clouds, that hung dark o'er thy westering sun,
“Shall herald, like rainbows, thy rising on high!
III
“Remember the days, when to Ottoman gales“The bold Ladislaus his gonfalon spread,
“And Germany heard, through her oak-covered vales,
“The shouts of our warriors like thunderbolts spread!
“For wherever the trumpet of glory was blown,
“It bore in its accents a Polander's name,
“And the warrior, who met him in regions unknown,
“Claim'd friendship with him, whom he knew but by fame.
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IV
“And thou, the last beam of a perishing shore,“Thou chief of a day that I lived not to see,
“Vienna remembers her champion no more,
“And thy land, Sobieski, is fallen with thee!
“I saw not thy fame—but my spirit was there,
“When the signals blazed proudly o'er tower and o'er spire,
“Heard the shouts of my land wafted high in the air,
“And struck, 'midst the blue clouds, my patriot lyre.
V
“Oh, my land! when in Wilna's sweet vallies reposing“I waked its first measures to freedom and thee,
“And nursed my young dreams, in fond vision disclosing
“Thy chieftains unborn, and thy glories to be,
“Had I known, that the land of the fair and the free
“Should ever so stoop to a conqueror's brow,
“My harp-strings had burst, ere they murmur'd to thee
“The strain, that assails thee like mockery now!
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VI
“Sleep, mighty ones, sleep! Ye are gone to your rest,“And the storms of this dark world approach not to you!
“Oh, happy! who die upon victory's breast,
“And wait not the woes of their country to view!
“The warm cheering sun shines in vain on their graves,
“The flowers that bloom round have no fragrance for them:
“But they see not her sun sunken low in the waves,
“They see not the flower rent from Liberty's stem!
VII
“The Chiefs of the Nations are met for the fight,“The red flag of death to the breeze is unfurl'd,
‘For the last war is nigh, and each land sends her might
“To join the proud ranks of a warrior world:
“And mine—Oh! had mine been but free as of old,
“How brightly her falchion had shone in your fight!
“But her wrongs have not slept—and the bolt as it roll'd
“Swept the ear of the captive with awful delight.
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VIII
“O'er Moscow's high walls, where like many-hued fires“Her thousand bright cupolas glance to the sun,
“Where she spreads, like a plain, by the stream of her sires,
“And mirrors her charms in the waves as they run,
“O'er Moscow's high walls, in thick volumes extending,
“I saw the black smoke-cloud triumphantly ride,
“Like the column of steam, from some death-pile ascending,
“Where thousands have perished in victory's tide.
IX
“When Austerlitz darkened with Germany's woes,“When the Eagle on Moskwa his red wing unfurl'd,
“When the sun over Leipsic all sorrowing rose,
“And tinged his pure beams in the blood of the world,
“I watch'd the proud deeds of my race from above,
“And mark'd the last gleams of my country decay;
“And if spirits could mourn o'er the brave that they love,
“This cheek, oh my land! had been colder than they.
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X
“They are fall'n in all lands, and the fame of their deeds“Is gone, like the trace of their blood on the plain:
“Unwept and unhonoured the warrior bleeds,
“Who fights but to stablish a conqueror's reign!
“But the exiles that live, and the bold hearts that died,
“Shall still, loved land! hold thy memory dear;
“For the hero from heaven shall gaze on thee with pride,
“And the wanderer think of thy home with a tear.
XI
“Ye Chiefs of the Nations! whose madness estranged“The hands, that, unshackled, had fought but for you,
“Awake! be the deeds of your fathers avenged,
“And bind to your bosoms the brave and the true!
“With you, when the hand of the Conqueror waved it,
“We stemm'd the proud Crescent on Chocim's red plain,
“While the world gazed with pride on the bold hands that saved it—
“Oh, when shall those hands twine in glory again?”
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XII
The stream in the twilight roll'd silently by,And the night-cloud o'er Warsaw its shadow had cast:
“Farewell!” cried the shade, and his heavenly eye
Shone proudly with hope, as he rose on the blast—
“Thou art fall'n in the field, but thy race is not run;
“Thy body is fled, but thy soul cannot die;
“And the clouds, that hung dark o'er thy westering sun,
“Shall herald, like rainbows, thy rising on high!”
The battle of Chocim was fought in 1630, by the Poles, Prussians, Russians, Lithuanians, and Livonians, against the superior force of Turkey.
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STANZAS.
[I saw thy young unwrinkled brow]
I saw thy young unwrinkled brow
Smiling with hope, with pleasure bright;
I saw thine eyes, unheeding how,
Shoot forth a pure and playful light.
Smiling with hope, with pleasure bright;
I saw thine eyes, unheeding how,
Shoot forth a pure and playful light.
I thought, if e'er there breathed on earth
A thing too good for sin to own,
A thing whose very grace and worth
Might tempt a fostering angel down—
A thing too good for sin to own,
A thing whose very grace and worth
Might tempt a fostering angel down—
Such was thy soul—that, yet unstained,
Fresh from its Maker's hand sublime,
Young, new, and blooming still remained,
Like a creation in its prime.
Fresh from its Maker's hand sublime,
Young, new, and blooming still remained,
Like a creation in its prime.
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As shelter'd by its glassy roof
The orient flower through winter blows,
Like hope to wintry sorrows proof,
While all around is white with snows:
The orient flower through winter blows,
Like hope to wintry sorrows proof,
While all around is white with snows:
So thou, fair flower, amid the gloom
Of this bad world dost fearless blow,
While o'er the wild thy tender bloom
Sheds far a sweet and lonely glow.
Of this bad world dost fearless blow,
While o'er the wild thy tender bloom
Sheds far a sweet and lonely glow.
May Heaven's enlightening influence guide
Thy spirit in its earthly way!
Oh! never may thy footsteps glide
In guilt's polluting maze to stray!
Thy spirit in its earthly way!
Oh! never may thy footsteps glide
In guilt's polluting maze to stray!
Thy crime would be its own reward;
No need of heaven's avenging blast;
Grief would destroy what sin had marred,
And thy first trespass be thy last.
No need of heaven's avenging blast;
Grief would destroy what sin had marred,
And thy first trespass be thy last.
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REFLECTION, IN THE MANNER OF MOORE.
'Tis true, the soft thrill our affections impart
Is well worth the hour it beguiles,
And I would not relinquish the tear of the heart
For the calmest of apathy's smiles:
But feeling, unchasten'd, to riot may run,
And sweep the soul's glories away,
And the flower that expanded too wide to the sun,
Must die in the withering ray.
Is well worth the hour it beguiles,
And I would not relinquish the tear of the heart
For the calmest of apathy's smiles:
But feeling, unchasten'd, to riot may run,
And sweep the soul's glories away,
And the flower that expanded too wide to the sun,
Must die in the withering ray.
There are times, when the tumult of passion is staid
And still as a cool summer night,
And all that once tempted, and all that dismay'd,
Dissolves like a vapour in light:
Oh, then, to reflect, had we met but the storm
With valour's unchangeable brow,
Had the flame of resolve been but lasting as warm,
How our hearts had rejoiced in it now!
And still as a cool summer night,
And all that once tempted, and all that dismay'd,
Dissolves like a vapour in light:
Oh, then, to reflect, had we met but the storm
With valour's unchangeable brow,
Had the flame of resolve been but lasting as warm,
How our hearts had rejoiced in it now!
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REFLECTION, IN THE MANNER OF LORD BYRON.
How sweet it were, methinks, awhile
To quit this weary load of clay,
To wanton in the summer smile,
Tenants of air and boundless day!
How sweet, how passing sweet, to rise
Afar from grief, afar from care,
And sail at will the fleecy skies,
Light as the cloud that hovers there!
To quit this weary load of clay,
To wanton in the summer smile,
Tenants of air and boundless day!
How sweet, how passing sweet, to rise
Afar from grief, afar from care,
And sail at will the fleecy skies,
Light as the cloud that hovers there!
Vain wish! would guilt, would passion fly,
When the free spirit soar'd above?
Would grief melt in the sunny sky,
Or winds disperse the vapour love?
No, no—the soul's its native place,
Its own unrivall'd lord or slave:
No spot can elevate the base—
No change depress the truly brave!
When the free spirit soar'd above?
Would grief melt in the sunny sky,
Or winds disperse the vapour love?
No, no—the soul's its native place,
Its own unrivall'd lord or slave:
No spot can elevate the base—
No change depress the truly brave!
| The appeal of Poland | |