So driv'n, O Poland! from thy ravaged plains,
So mourning o'er thy sad and but loved remains,
A houseless wretch, I wander through the world,
From friends, from greatness, and from glory hurl'd!
"Oh! not that each long night my weary eyes
Sink into sleep, unlull'd by Pity's sighs;
Not that in bitter tears my bread is steep'd--
Tears drawn by insults on my sorrows heap'd;
Not that my thoughts recall a mother's grave--
Recall the sire I would have died to save,
Who fell before me, bleeding on the field,
Whilst I in vain opposed the useless shield.
Ah! not for these I grieve! Though mental woe,
More deadly still, scarce Fancy's self could know!
O'er want and private griefs the soul can climb,--
Virtue subdues the one, the other Time:
But at his country's fall, the patriot feels
A grief no time, no drug, no reason heals.
"Mem'ry! remorseless murderer, whose voice
Kills as it sounds; who never says, Rejoice!
To my deserted heart, by joy forgot;
Thou pale, thou midnight spectre, haunt me not!
Thou dost but point to where sublimely stands
A glorious temple, reared by Virtue's hands,
Circled with palms and laurels, crown'd with light,
Darting Truth's piercing sun on mortal sight:
Then rushing on, leagued fiends of hellish birth
Level the mighty fabric with the earth!
Slept the red bolt of Vengeance in that hour
When virtuous Freedom fell the slave of Power!
Slumber'd the God of Justice! that no brand
Blasted with blazing wing the impious band!
Dread God of Justice! to thy will I kneel,
Though still my filial heart must bleed and feel;
Though still the proud convulsive throb will rise,
When fools my country's wrongs and woes despise;
When low-soul'd Pomp, vain Wealth, that Pity gives,
Which Virtue ne'er bestows and ne'er receives,--
That Pity, stabbing where it vaunts to cure,
Which barbs the dart of Want, and makes it sure.
Pages:
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440