There came not friendship then from earth--nor mercy from the skies!

But Heaven has roused the Polish slave and bid him rend his chains,
And now we rank among the free--"Our country yet remains:"
Again we seek our native rights by God and Nature given--
A people's right unto their soil from us unjustly riven.

We call upon the honoured brave--the free of every land--
For succour from the powerful--for aid from every strand:
We ask for every good man's prayer--we call for help on high;
Ye shades of Poland's slaughtered sons, look on propitiously.

We fight the fight of nations--bear witness field and storm
To our desert hereafter? Now we are but braggarts warm--
But by our honest cause, we swear, ere they our land retake,
Each town shall he a charnel tomb--each field a gory lake!


CYMBELINE.

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THE NATURALIST.

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