Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 17, No. 476, February 12, 1831 - Various - Страница 2

The rills run free, and fetterless, and strong,

Rejoicing that their icy bonds are broke,

The breeze is burthen'd with the grateful song

Of birds innumerous: who from torpor woke,

Cleave the fine air with renovated stroke.

The teeming earth flings up its budding store

Of herbs, and flow'rs, escaping from the yoke.

That Winter's spell had cast around; and o'er

The clear and sun-lit sky, dark clouds are seen no more.

In woody dells, by shallow brooks that stand,

The modest violet, and primrose pale,

(Like youth just bursting into life,) expand,

And cast their perfumes down the dewy vale,

Till laden seems each bland, yet searching gale

That fans the cheek with odours of the Spring.

All living nature rushes to inhale:

As if this universal blossoming

Too soon would fade away, or instantly take wing.

What beauty in the swelling upland green,

On which the fleecy flock in sportive play,

And mirth, and gambol innocent, are seen.

What pleasure through the scented copse to stray,

And hear the stock dove coo its am'rous lay,

Or climb the steep hill's side, beneath whose height

Dashing afar, like drifted snow, their spray;

The waves of ocean with an angry might,

Flash in the purple dawn, majestically bright.

Yet 'midst this union of benignant tones,

How fares it with the reasonable part

Of God's created glories? Man disowns

Not to give thanks; but skilled by human art

To screen the passions of a grateful heart;

He walks encircled by philosophy, whose creed

Allows no outward semblance, to impart

One trace of joyousness that may exceed

Those coldly rigid rules on which it loves to feed.

And therefore balmy spring, with all its joys,

Its pomp of early leaves, and thrilling lays,

And ceaseless chime of song (that never cloys,

Altho' the winds be redolent of praise.)

Wakes not in man that stupor of amaze,

Bird, beast, and plant, in universal choir,

Pay to Almighty in a thousand ways,

That sterner reason's votaries would flout,

Giving their tardy homage in mistrust and doubt.

Not so with me. I never feel the spring

Come on in beauty, but my swelling soul

Seems ready in its gush of joy, to fling

All trammels off, that would in aught control

Its wild pulsation. O'er it feelings roll

Too mighty for expression; and each sense

Appears to be commingled in one whole;

Whose sum of ecstacy is so intense,

It finds no home to garner it, but in omnipotence.

Rise fellow men! our country yet remains

By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,

And swear with her to live—for her to die.

Have we not proved our country's worth—the country of the free?

Have we not raised the tyrant's foot—and struck for liberty—

The giant foot that on us fell, in war's tremendous fall—

The mighty weight that bore us down and held our arms in thrall?

Have we not risked our homes, our all, at Freedom's glorious shrine,

And dared the vengeance of the Russ, whose sway is yclept divine?

And have we not appealed to arms—our last and dearest right!

And is not ours a sacred cause, a just and holy fight?

Yes, on Sarmatia's bleeding form Oppression's fetters rang,

And Liberty's last dying dirge the Northern trumpet sang:

Our hopes were buried in the grave where Kosciusko lies;

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!