Imatges de pÓgina

"Lyre ! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart;
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We must now for ever part;
For in vain thy poet sings,

Wooes in vain thine heavenly strings;
The Muse's wretched sons are born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.
"That which ALEXANDER sighed for,
That which CESAR's soul possessed,
That which heroes, kings, have died for-
Glory!-animates my breast:
Hark! the charging trumpet's throats
Pour their death-defying notes;
To arms!' they call to arms I fly,

Like WOLFE to conquer, and like WOLFE to die.

"Soft!-the blood of murdered legions
Summons vengeance from the skies;
Flaming towns and ravaged regions,
All in awful judgment rise.-

O then, innocently brave,

I will wrestle with the wave;
Lo! Commerce spreads the daring sail,
And yokes her naval chariots to the gale.

"Blow, ye breezes !-gently blowing,
Waft me to that happy shore,
Where, from fountains ever flowing,
Indian realms their treasures pour ;
Thence returning, poor in health,
Rich in honesty and wealth,

O'er thee, my dear paternal soil,
I'll strew the golden harvest of my toil.

"Then shall Misery's sons and daughters
In their lowly dwellings sing:
Bounteous as the Nile's dark waters,
Undiscovered as the spring,

I will scatter o'er the land
Blessings with a secret hand;
For such angelic tasks designed,
I give the lyre and sorrow to the wind."

On an oak, whose branches hoary
Sighed to every passing breeze,
Sighed and told the simple story
Of the patriarch of trees;
High in air his harp he hung,
Now no more to rapture strung;
Then warm in hope, no longer pale,

He blushed adieu, and rambled down the dale.

Lightly touched by fairy fingers,

Hark! the Lyre enchants the wind; Fond ALCAUS listens, lingers,

-Lingering, listening, looks behind. Now the music mounts on high,

Sweetly swelling through the sky; To every tone, with tender heat,

His heart-strings vibrate, and his pulses beat.

Now the strains to silence stealing,
Soft in ecstasies expire;
Oh! with what romantic feeling
Poor ALCEUS grasps the Lyre.
Lo! his furious hand he flings
In a tempest o'er the strings;
He strikes the chords so quick, so loud,

'T is Jove that scatters lightning from a cloud.

"Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,

Solace of my bleeding heart;

Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We will never, never part.
Glory, Commerce, now in vain
Tempt me to the field, the main ;
The Muse's sons are blest, though born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.

"What, though all the world neglect me,
Shall my haughty soul repine?
And shall poverty deject me,

While this hallowed Lyre is mine?
Heaven-that o'er my helpless head
Many a wrathful vial shed,-

Heaven gave this Lyre,-and thus decreed,
Be thou a bruised, but not a broken reed.”


OH! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, And HOPE, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandoors 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!

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Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,-
Oh! Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save !-
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep these 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 watch-word and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm !—

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In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew :Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; HOPE, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked-as KOSCIUSKO fell!

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage 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 a way, Bursts the wide cry of horror and dismay! Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook-red meteors flashed along the sky, And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry!

Oh! 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 crushed 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 commotion flow,
And heaved an ocean on their march 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

Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see That man hath yet a soul-and dare be free! A little while, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of Desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven! Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her name, her nature, withered from the world!



'TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.

'For here, forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.'

'Forbear, my son,' the Hermit cries,
'To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

'Here to the houseless child of want
My door is



And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.

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