Thus Switzerland again was free;
  Thus Death made way for Liberty!

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

* * * * *

POLAND.

FROM “THE PLEASURES OF HOPE,” PART I.

  O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile,
  And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
  When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars
  Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars,
  Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
  Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn;
  Tumultuous horror brooded o’er her van,
  Presaging wrath to Poland—­and to man! 
    Warsaw’s last champion from her height surveyed,
  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 country 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, but undismayed;
  Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
  Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
  Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
  Revenge, or death,—­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 your volleyed thunder flew:—­
  O, bloodiest picture in the book of Time! 
  Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
  Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
  Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! 
  Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear,
  Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career;
  Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
  And Freedom shrieked—­as Kosciusko fell!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

THE MARSEILLAISE.

  Ye sons of freedom, wake to glory! 
    Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise! 
  Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,
    Behold their tears and hear their cries! 
  Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding,
      With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
      Affright and desolate the land,
  While peace and liberty lie bleeding? 
      To arms! to arms! ye brave! 
        The avenging sword unsheathe;
      March on! march on! all hearts resolved
        On victory or death.

  Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling,
    Which treacherous kings confederate raise;
  The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,
    And lo! our fields and cities blaze;
  And shall we basely view the ruin,
      While lawless force, with guilty stride,
      Spreads desolation far and wide,
  With crimes and blood his hands imbruing? 
        To arms! to arms! ye brave, etc.