*

Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines,
From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines,"
Truth shall pervade the unfathom'd darkness there,
And light the dreadful features of Despair.—
Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load,
And asks the image back that Heaven bestow'd:
Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns,
And, as the slave departs, the man returns.

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!

* Mr Bell of Antermony, in his Travels through Siberia, informs us that the name of the country is universally pronounced Sibir by the Russians.

The history of the partition of Poland, of the massacre in the suburbs of Warsaw and on the bridge of Prague, the triumphant entry of Suwarrow into the Polish capital, and the insult offered to human nature, by the blasphemous thanks offered up to Heaven, for victories obtained over men fighting in the sacred cause of liberty, by murderers and oppressors, are events generally known.

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! 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 wo!

Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd

spear,

Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career ;-
HOPE, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shriek'd-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 flash'd along the sky,
And conscious Nature shudder'd 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 crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar?
Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host
Of blood-stain'd 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 hurl'd, Her name, her nature, wither'd from the world!

Ye that the rising morn invidious mark, And hate the light-because your deeds are dark;

Ye that expanding truth invidious view,
And think, or wish, the song of HOPE untrue;
Perhaps your little hands presume to span
The march of Genius and the powers of man;
Perhaps ye watch, at Pride's unhallow'd shrine,
Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine :—
"Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease, and here
Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career."

Tyrants! in vain ye trace the wizard ring; In vain ye limit Mind's unwearied spring: What! can ye lull the winged winds asleep, Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep? No!-the wild wave contemns your sceptred

hand!

It roll'd not back when Canute gave command!

Man! can thy doom no brighter soul allow? Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow? Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be furl’d? Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world What! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied? Why then hath Plato lived—or Sidney died ?—

Ye fond adorers of departed fame,

Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name!
Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire
The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre!
Rapt in historic ardour, who adore
Each classic haunt, and well-remember'd shore,
Where Valour tuned, amid her chosen throng,
The Thracian trumpet and the Spartan song;

With fires proportion'd to his native sky,
Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye;
Scour'd with wild feet his sun-illumined zone,
The spear, the lion, and the woods, his own!
Or led the combat, bold without a plan,
An artless savage, but a fearless man!

The plunderer came!-alas! no glory smiles For Congo's chief on yonder Indian isles; For ever fallen! no son of Nature now, With Freedom charter'd on his manly brow! Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day, Starts, with a bursting heart, for evermore To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore!

The shrill horn blew ;* at that alarum knell His guardian angel took a last farewell! That funeral dirge to darkness hath resign'd The fiery grandeur of a generous mind! Poor fetter'd man! I hear thee whispering low Unhallow'd vows to Guilt, the child of Wo! Friendless thy heart; and canst thou harbour there A wish but death—a passion but despair?

The widow'd Indian, when her lord expires, Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires!

So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh!

So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty!

*The negroes in the West Indies are summoned to their morning work by a shell or horn.