| Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, |
| That cut, like blades of steel, the air, |
| Causing the creeping blood to chill |
| With the sharp cadence of despair? |
| |
| Again they come, as if a heart |
| Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, |
| And every string had voice apart |
| To utter its peculiar woe. |
| |
| Whence came they? From yon temple, where |
| An altar, raised for private prayer, |
| Now forms the warrior's marble bed |
| Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. |
| |
| The dim funereal tapers throw |
| A holy luster o'er his brow, |
| And burnish with their rays of light |
| The mass of curls that gather bright |
| Above the haughty brow and eye |
| Of a young boy that's kneeling by. |
| |
| What hand is that, whose icy press |
| Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, |
| But meets no answering caress? |
| No thrilling fingers seek its clasp. |
| It is the hand of her whose cry |
| Rang wildly, late, upon the air, |
| When the dead warrior met her eye |
| Outstretched upon the altar there. |
| |
| With pallid lip and stony brow |
| She murmurs forth her anguish now. |
| But hark! the tramp of heavy feet |
| Is heard along the bloody street; |
| Nearer and nearer yet they come, |
| With clanking arms and noiseless drum. |
| Now whispered curses, low and deep, |
| Around the holy temple creep; |
| The gate is burst; a ruffian band |
| Rush in, and savagely demand, |
| With brutal voice and oath profane, |
| The startled boy for exile's chain. |
| |
| The mother sprang with gesture wild, |
| And to her bosom clasped her child; |
| Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, |
| Shouted with fearful energy, |
| "Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread |
| Too near the body of my dead; |
| Nor touch the living boy; I stand |
| Between him and your lawless band. |
| Take me, and bind these arms—these hands— |
| With Russia's heaviest iron bands, |
| And drag me to Siberia's wild |
| To perish, if 'twill save my child!" |
| |
| "Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, |
| Tearing the pale boy from her side, |
| And in his ruffian grasp he bore |
| His victim to the temple door. |
| "One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one! |
| Will land or gold redeem my son? |
| Take heritage, take name, take all, |
| But leave him free from Russian thrall! |
| Take these!" and her white arms and hands |
| She stripped of rings and diamond bands, |
| And tore from braids of long black hair |
| The gems that gleamed like starlight there; |
| Her cross of blazing rubies, last, |
| Down at the Russian's feet she cast. |
| He stooped to seize the glittering store;— |
| Up springing from the marble floor, |
| The mother, with a cry of joy, |
| Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. |
| But no! the Russian's iron grasp |
| Again undid the mother's clasp. |
| Forward she fell, with one long cry |
| Of more than mortal agony. |
| |
| But the brave child is roused at length, |
| And, breaking from the Russian's hold, |
| He stands, a giant in the strength |
| Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. |
| Proudly he towers; his flashing eye, |
| So blue, and yet so bright, |
| Seems kindled from the eternal sky, |
| So brilliant is its light. |
| |
| His curling lips and crimson cheeks |
| Foretell the thought before he speaks; |
| With a full voice of proud command |
| He turned upon the wondering band. |
| |
| "Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can; |
| This hour has made the boy a man. |
| I knelt before my slaughtered sire, |
| Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. |
| I wept upon his marble brow, |
| Yes, wept! I was a child; but now |
| My noble mother, on her knee, |
| Hath done the work of years for me!" |
| |
| He drew aside his broidered vest, |
| And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, |
| The jeweled haft of poniard bright |
| Glittered a moment on the sight. |
| "Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! |
| Think ye my noble father's glaive |
| Would drink the life-blood of a slave? |
| The pearls that on the handle flame |
| Would blush to rubies in their shame; |
| The blade would quiver in thy breast |
| Ashamed of such ignoble rest. |
| No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, |
| And fling him back a boy's disdain!" |
| |
| A moment, and the funeral light |
| Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; |
| Another, and his young heart's blood |
| Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. |
| Quick to his mother's side he sprang, |
| And on the air his clear voice rang: |
| "Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! |
| The choice was death or slavery. |
| Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! |
| His freedom is forever won; |
| And now he waits one holy kiss |
| To bear his father home in bliss; |
| One last embrace, one blessing—one! |
| To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son. |
| What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel |
| My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? |
| Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head! |
| What! silent still? Then art thou dead: |
| —Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I |
| Rejoice with thee—and thus—to die." |
| One long, deep breath, and his pale head |
| Lay on his mother's bosom—dead. |
| |
| Ann S. Stephens. |
