Classic Poem

Deep sunk in thought I stood upon a cliff —
A stately cliff which reared its lofty head
High o'er the boiling surge — where wildly flew
The eagle, and the fleecy clouds walked past
Upon their arched and bright enamelled path;
While the round stars seemed rolling in their arms,
Beside their virgin-mother, — There I stood
Sealed in mysterious and lethargic gaze,
Possessing feeling strange — when lo! a sigh —
A heavy sigh, thrilled on my wondering ear,
Soft as the willow's wailing to the wind,
Or solemn as the chime of vesper-bell,
Re-mellowed o'er the waves, and so it passed
Upon the pinions of the zephyr's wing;
Yet, pensively I stood with eager eye,
And listening ear, to catch the sound again,
And stood not long, when o'er my dizzy head
A rustling noise, like wind through autumn leaves
Seemed passing nigh — I turned mine eye above,
And saw a wretched, weeping band perched high
Upon a sable cloud — and there I heard
A doleful song composed of sobs and sighs, —
Loud murmurings and anguish of the soul,
And now I could discover human tones,
Which in a sacred strain like this began: —

" We flee from our ruined land
To where we shall be free, —
Where Slaughter raises not her hand,
We haste across the sea.
We pause not o'er yon home of wo,
We strive no longer with the foe,
Our strength is gone, and we must go,
Fond Poland! far from thee! "

" We hasten where the happy are —
Where vile invaders die;
We would not with base tyrants share
A land of misery.
We part with all we held so dear,
And o'er their memory drop a tear,
Our children are in bondage drear,
Far from a parent-eye.

" We struggled, yet we found no aid —
We fought and vanquished too;
And treachery oft shrunk, afraid
Of what our power could do.
But now at last obliged to yield,
With fainting heart and broken shield,
We leave our felon foes the field,
Our Polish land — adieu! "

The vision passed along, — I heard no more,
And all again was lulled in silence mute;
But in my breast the throb of sorrow beat
With quickened pulse, and o'er my dewy brow
A shivering coldness crept, while in my soul
A sympathetic feeling roused my muse,
And in a faint, half-stifled speech, my tongue
Began to mourn for Poland, something thus: —

" Ill-fated, bleeding Poland!
When shall thy miseries end,
And British hearts and British swords,
Their succour to thee lend? —
When shall they crush the Demon,
And thine iron-hearted foes, —
Resign to thee thy cherished rights,
And change to smile thy woes? "

" All-glorious hast thou struggled
In the ruddy field of fight,
And put the soulless, savage ranks
Of treachery to flight. —
Yet, they have slain thy children,
And untied the parent link;
And vultures from their little hearts,
The vital fluid drink. "

" And step by step thou'rt driven,
Over slaughter's gory plains,
And scarcely find a dwelling
In thine own adored domains. —
Yet Britain views thee dying
In defence of father-land;
By the hard unfeeling fiat
Of a Monarch's stern command. "

" Still be brave, Ethunianians,
Oppression yet may fail,
Though now upon thy every side
Base tyrants do assail.
Britain yet may join thy banners,
And mix soul and sword with thee;
Then despite of Russia Autocrat,
Brave Poland shall be Free! "