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THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.
THE FALL OF POLAND.
FROM PART I. Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet-horn, Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland—and to man ! Warsaw's last champion from her heights survey'd, 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 those 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 array'd His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd ; 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 watchword and reply; Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm !
In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few!
The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there,
Oh! righteous Heaven; ere Freedom found a grave,
Departed spirits of the mighty dead !
Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land ! shall see
GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.
THE DEATH OF GERTRUDE.
FROM PART III.
(xxv.) Pasr was the flight, and welcome seem'd the tower, That like a giant standard-bearer frown'd Defiance on the roving Indian power, Beneath, each bold and promontory mound With embrasure emboss'd and armour crown'd, And arrowy frize, and wedged ravelin, Wove like a diadem its tracery round The lofty summit of that mountain green; Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene.
(XXVI.) A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun, And blended arms, and white pavilions glow; And for the business of destruction done, Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow : There, sad spectatress of her country's woe! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snow On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild alarm!
(XXVII.) But short that contemplation-sad and short The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu ! Beneath the very shadow of the fort, Where friendly swords were drawn,and banners flew: Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near ?-yet there, with lust of murderous deeds, Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view, The ambush'd foeman's eye-his volley speeds, And Albert-Albert falls ! the dear old father bleeds!
(xxvII.) And tranced in giddy horror, Gertrude swoonid; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound, These drops ? Oh, God ! the life-blood is her own! And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown; “Weep not, O Love!”—she cries, " to see me bleed; Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed These wounds ;-yet thee to leave is death, is death
(xxix.) “Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress; And when this heart hath ceased to beat,-oh! think And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust!