Russia, that on his throne of adamant, Consults what nation's breast shall next be gored: He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant His standard fresh; and horde succeeding horde, On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword, For more stupendous slaughters of the free.. Then Europe's realms, when their best blood is pour'd, Shall miss thee, Poland! as they bend the knee, All-all in grief, but none in glory, likening thee. Why smote ye not the Giant whilst he reel'd? O fair occasion, gone for ever by ! To have lock'd his lances in their northern field, Innocuous as the phantom chivalry That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky! Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o'er the land Once Poland; build thy bristling castles high; Dig dungeons deep; for Poland's wrested brand Is now a weapon new to widen thy command An awful width! Norwegian woods shall build main: Brute hosts, I own; but Sparta could not write, And Rome, half-barbarous, bound Achaia's chain : So Russia's spirit, 'midst Sclavonic night, Burns with a fire more dread than all your polished light. But Russia's limbs (so blinded statesmen speak) Are crude, and too colossal to cohere. O, lamentable weakness! reckoning weak The stripling Titan, strengthening year by year. What implement lacks he for war's career, That grows on earth, or in its floods and mines, (Eighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere) Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines, And India's homage waits, when Albion's star declines ! But time will teach the Russ, ev'n conquering War Has handmaid arts: ay, ay, the Russ will woo All sciences that speed Bellona's car, All murder's tactic arts, and win them too; But never holier Muses shall imbue His breast, that's made of nature's basest clay : The sabre, knout, and dungeon's vapour blue His laws and ethics: far from him away Are all the lovely Nine, that breathe but Freedom's day. Say, ev'n his serfs, half-humanized, should learn Their human rights,-will Mars put out his flame In Russian bosoms? no, he 'll bid them burn A thousand years for nought but martial fame, Like Romans :-yet forgive me, Roman name! Rome could impart what Russia never can; Proud civic rights to salve submission's shame. Our strife is coming; but in freedom's van The Polish eagle's fall is big with fate to man. Proud bird of old! Mohammed's moon recoil'd Earth's new oppressors, as it foil'd her old. mind, Ye bore the brunt of fate, and bled for humankind. So hallowedly have ye fulfill'd your part, heart. My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends! Your sorrow, in nobility, transcends Your conqueror's joy: his cheek may blush; but shame Can tinge not yours, though exile's tear descends; Nor would ye change your conscience, cause, and name, For his, with all his wealth, and all his felon fame. Thee, Niemciewitz, whose song of stirring power scorn Saying "Russia from the metal of these brands Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn; Our setting star is your misfortunes' rising morn." 1831. LINES ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA. ADIEU the woods and waters' side, The rocks abrupt and grassy plain! But not the storm, dethroning fast Nor river roaring to the blast Around its dark and desert isle; Nor church-bell tolling to beguile The cloud-born thunder passing by, Can sound in discord to my soul: Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll! And rage, thou darken'd sky! |