XLVIII.-THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND.—Campbell. O SACRED Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, 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!
Warsaw's last champion, from her heights, surveyed, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid
"O 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, OF DEATH! the watchword and reply:-
Then pealed the notes omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!
In vain-alas! in vain, ye gallant few,
From rank to rank your volley'd 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 çareer!-
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 wild 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!
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
The PATRIOT TELL-the BRUCE of BANNOCKBURN.
XLIX. THE MARINER'S DREAM.-Dimond.
IN slumbers of midnight the Sailor Boy lay,
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind,
But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.
He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While Memory stood sideways, half covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but concealed every thorn.
Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise;—
Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.
The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport, he raises the latch-
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call:
A father bends o'er him with looks of delight;
His cheek is bedewed with a mother's warm tear;
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite
With the lips of the friends, whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,
Joy quickens his pulse, all his hardships seem o'er;
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest-
"O Fate! thou hast blessed me-I ask for no more."
Ah! whence is that flame which now glares in his eye?
Ah! what is that sound which now bursts on his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting wrath on the sky! 'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere! He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deckAmazement confronts him with images dire! Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreckThe masts fly in splinters-the shrouds are on fire! Like mountains the billows tremendously swell— In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,
And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave! Oh, Sailor Boy! woe to thy dream of delight!
In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of blissWhere now is the picture that fancy touched bright, Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honied kiss? Oh, Sailor Boy! Sailor Boy! never again
Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay;
Unblessed and unhonoured, down deep in the main
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.
No tomb shall e'er plead to Remembrance for thee,
But still the vast waters above thee shall roll,
And the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be-
Oh, Sailor Boy! Sailor Boy! peace to thy soul!
L.-SCENE BEFORE THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.-Byron.
THE night is past, and shines the sun
As if that morn were a jocund one.
Lightly and brightly breaks away
The Morning from her mantle gray,
And the Noon will look on a sultry day.-
Hark to the trump and the drum,
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn,
And the flap of the banners that flit as they're borne,
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum,
And the clash, and the shout "They come, they come !"
The horse-tails are plucked from the ground, and the sword
From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word.
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein;
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane;
White is the foam of their champ on the bit:-
The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit;
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar,
And crush the wall they have crumbled before:—
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar,
Alp at their head; his right arm is bare,
So is the blade of his scimitar;
The Khan and the Pachas are all at their post;
The Vizier himself at the head of the host.
"When the culverin's signal is fired, then on!
Leave not in Corinth a living one-
A priest at her altars-a chief in her halls-
A hearth in her mansions-a stone on her walls.
Heaven and the Prophet-Alla Hu!
Up to the skies with that wild halloo !"
As the wolves that headlong go
On the stately buffalo,
Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar,
And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore,
He tramples on earth, or tosses on high
The foremost who rush on his strength but to die;
Thus against the wall they went,
Thus the first were backward bent:
Even as they fell, in files they lay,
Like the mower's grass at the close of day,
When his work is done on the levelled plain
Such was the fall of the foremost slain.
As the spring-tides, with heavy plash,
From the cliffs, invading dash
Huge fragments, sapped by the ceaseless flow,
Till white and thundering down they go-
Like the avalanche's snow
On the Alpine vales below
Thus at length, out-breath'd and worn,
Corinth's sons were downward borne
By the long and oft-renewed
Charge of the Moslem multitude.
In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell,
Heaped by the host of the Infidel,
Hand to hand, and foot to foot:
Nothing there, save death, was mute;
Stroke, and thrust, and flash and cry
For quarter, or for victory.
From the point of encountering blade to the hilt,
Sabres and swords with blood were gilt:-
But the rampart is won-and the spoil begun-
And all, but the after-carnage, done.
Shriller shrieks now mingling come
From within the plundered dome.
Hark, to the haste of flying feet,
That splash in the blood of the slippery street!
LI. SCENE AFTER THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.-Byron.
ALP wandered on, along the beach,
Till within the range of a carbine's reach
Of the leaguered wall; but they saw him not,
Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot?
Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold?
Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts waxed cold?
I know rot, in sooth; but from yonder wall
There flashed no fire, and there hissed no ball,
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown,
That flanked the sea-ward gate of the town;
Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell
The sullen words of the sentinel,
As his measured step on the stone below
Clanked, as he paced it to and fro:
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall
Hold o'er the dead their carnival,
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb;
They were too busy to bark at him!
From a Tartar's skull they had stripped the flesh,
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ;
And their white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull,
As it slipped through their jaws when their edge grew dull,
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead,
When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed; So well had they broken a lingering fast
With those who had fallen for that night's repast.
And Alp knew, by the turbans that rolled on the sand,
The foremost of these were the best of his band.
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw,
The hair was tangled round his jaw.
But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf,
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf,
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away,
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey;
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay,
Picked by the birds, on the sands of the bay!
Alp turned him from the sickening sight:
Never had shaken his nerves in fight;
But he better could brook to behold the dying,
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying,
Scorched with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain,
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.
-There is something of pride in the perilous hour,
Whate'er be the shape in which death may lour;
For Fame is there to say who bleeds,
And Honour's eye on daring deeds!
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead,
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air,
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there,
All regarding man as their prey,
All rejoicing in his decay!
LII. THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE.-Hon. Mrs. Norton.
My beautiful, my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly-arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye!
Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed;
I may not mount on thee again!-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind;
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold;-
Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell-thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt
Farewell!-Those free untirèd limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry clime that clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less kind, must now thy corn and bed prepare;
That silky mane I braided once, must be another's care.
The morning sun shall dawn again-but never more with thee
Shall I gallop o'er the desert paths where we were wont to be-
Evening shall darken on the earth; and, o'er the sandy plain,
Some other steed, with slower pace, shall bear me home again.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright-
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arms to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I startling wake, to feel thou'rt sold! my Arab steed.
Ah, rudely, then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side,
And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes that on thee gaze may count each starting vein!
Will they ill use thee ?-if I thought-but no,-it cannot be;
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free;--
And yet if haply when thou'rt gone, this lonely heart should yearn,
Oan the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return?
"Return!"-alas! my Arab steed! what will thy master do,
When thou, that wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the gathering
Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears?
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