WORDS cannot come, tears will not flow, So fierce the anguish, stern the woe The Polish patriot feels. In vain With bursting heart and burning brain, With high-strung nerves and vengeful hand, For freedom and his bleeding land, He madly strikes the barbarous foe— Chains, bondage, blood, and tears, and woe, His only meed; and deeper gloom Broods o'er the dark and bloody tomb Of Polish freedom. Lo, the bear, With rending claws and teeth that tear, And arms that crush out hope and life, Growls, hideous victor in the strife! We sympathise but do not hope, As through thy serpent folds we grope; Dark diplomacy, every fold Constrictive, cruel, slippery, cold; The horrid folds still crush and bind, As round the victim's form they wind— A shapeless mass, the remnant sole, When thus prepared is swallowed whole. What agonies of hope deferred Were thine, while neighbouring powers conferred; When bootless diplomatic notes Flew thick as wintry sunbeam motes! Then came the end, and thou wert left, Of mercy, hope, and help bereft. Ah! Garibaldi; we had hope That now thy strong right arm had scope To wield the brand uplifted never But to rescue, defend, deliver The victims of despotic sway, And pour the glorious light of day Through charnel dungeons vile and dark, Where time had neither hope nor mark, And laid the Bourbon's crown and throne Upon the sacred altar stone Of Freedom. Yet, poor Poland's name, We breathe it with a blush of shame: Her language, liberty, and laws Must die! Just Heaven, avenge her cause! We cannot, rather will not. None Will take her by the hand: alone, Before broad Europe, lost, forlorn, She lies dismembered, bleeding, torn. Indignant sorrow swells our breast; Before high Heaven a stern protest We make against that barbarous power That conquers only to devour. |