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 Warsaw’s last champion from height 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 these lovely plains, Rise, fellow men! our 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, hut undismay’d; Firm paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, hut dreadful as the storm! Low, murmuring sounds along their banner fly, !—The watchword 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 yout vollied thunder flew; O! bloodiest picture in the book of time, Samartia fell unwept, without a crime! Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe. Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropt from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; Hope, for as a season, hade the world farewell, And freedom shrieked—as 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--- Her blood-dyed waters murmuring far below. The storm prevails! the rampart yields away-- Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay!