High, high above the tree-tops, The lark is soaring free; Where streams the light through broken clouds His speckled breast I see: Beneath the might of wicked men The poor man's worth is dying; But, thank'd be God! in spite of them, The lark still warbles flying! The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us!" The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts How softly, in the pauses Of song, re-echoed wide, The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay, O'er rill and river glide! With evil deeds of evil men Th' affrighted land is ringing; But still, O Lord! the pious heart And soul-toned voice are singing! Hush! hush the preacher preacheth : "Woe to the oppressor, woe!" But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun And see not in his gather'd brow Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher! God whispers in the thunder: hear On useful hands, and honest hearts, A SONG IN EXILE. YES, with groans my lyre is strung; Poland's tears and Liberty's. England saw our setting sun! Why not London, Englishman? Lo! while Russia's iron tread, Where we fell or whence we fled, Shakes the dust of Poland's dead! Tyrant! twice we overthrew Hordes of thine, to tyrants true! Recreant France! thy conquerors. Yet, with us was Europe sold; Frighted France and Britain cold, Bribed the Goth to purchase her. Poland fell—and they may fall, Thou, O Father, tremblest not! Hopeless, homeless, do we roam ? VOL. II. E By Polonia's gory sod! Dig thou wide, Polonia's God, Dig thou deep, where freemen trod, ON AN ORIGINAL SKETCH, DRAWN WITH A PENCIL ON A WALL, BY MY SON FRANCIS. I SAW a head, a young but lifeless face On its dark hair, and two white wings, reposed, As on a pillow. Tears had left their trace The calm lips smiled; and like a sky arose, in light. SONG. THEY sold the chairs, they took the bed, and went ; 'A fiend's look after them the husband sent ; His thin wife held him faintly, but in vain ; 'She saw the alehouse in his scowl of pain. Upon her pregnant womb her hand she laid, Then stabb'd her living child! and shriek'd, dismay'd "Oh, why had I a mother!" wildly said. That saddest mother, gazing on the dead. Slowly she turn'd, and sought the silent room— Her last-born child's lone dwellingplace and tomb! Because they could not purchase earth and prayer, The dear dead boy had long lain coffin'd there! But that boy hath a sister-where is she? Before the judge, the childless stood amazed, With none to say, "My Lord! the wretch is crazed.” |