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" What, though all the world neglect me,

Shall my haughty soul repine ?
And shall poverty deject me,

While this hallowed Lyre is mine?
Heaven—that o'er my helpless head

Many a wrathful vial shed,
Heaven gave this Lyre,—and thus decreed,
Be thou a bruised, but not a broken reed.”


Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, 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 height surveyed, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, Oh! 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, or death, — the watch-word 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 volleyed 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 career ;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 wide 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!

Oh! righteous Heaven ! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save? Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod That smote the foes of Zion and of God; That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar ? Where was the storm that slumbered till the host Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast ; Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below?

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 !

Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land ! shall see That man hath yet a soul-and dare be free ! A little while, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of Desolation reigns ; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven ! Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her

name, her nature, withered from the world!



TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.
For here, forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

Seem lengthening as I go.'
Forbear, my son,' the Hermit cries,

"To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.
Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still ;
And though my portion is but scant,

I give it with good will.

*Then turn to-night, and freely share

Whate'er my cell bestows; My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.
* No flocks that range the valley free

To slaughter I condemn :
Taught by that power that pities me,

I learn to pity them:
. But from the mountain's grassy

side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,

And water from the spring.

* Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

All earth-born cares are wrong: . Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long.'
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,

His gentle accents fell :
The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay ;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor

And strangers led astray!
No stores beneath its humble thatch

Required a master's care ;
The wicket opening with a latch,

Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimmed his little fire,

And cheered his pensive guest :

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily prest and smiled ; And, skilled in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguiled.
Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries ;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth;

The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe a stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spied,

With answering care opprest: • And whence, unhappy youth,' he cried,

The sorrows of thy breast ?
* From better habitations spurned,

Reluctant dost thou rove ?
Or grieve for friendship unreturned,

Or unregarded love?
· Alas ! the joys that fortune brings

Are trifling, and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,

More trifling still than they.
* And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep ;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,

And leaves the wretch to weep?
* And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair one's jest : On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest,

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