Old Ocean was Infinity of ages ere we breathed Existence—and he will be beautiful When all the living world that sees him now Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun. Quelling from age to age the vital throb In human hearts, Death shall not subjugate The pulse that swells in _his_ stupendous breast, Or interdict his minstrelsy to sound In thund’ring concert with the quiring winds; But long as Man to parent Nature owns Instinctive homage, and in times beyond The power of thought to reach, bard after bard Shall sing thy glory, BEATIFIC SEA! LINES ON POLAND. And have I lived to see thee sword in hand Uprise again immortal Polish Land!— Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind, And leaves the tri-color in shade behind;— A theme for uninspirèd lips too strong; That swells my heart beyond the power of song:— Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith, Ah! yet your fate’s suspense arrests my breath; Whilst, envying bosoms bared to shot and steel, I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel. Poles! with what indignation I endure Th’ half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor; Poor! is it England mocks you with her grief, That hates, but dares not chide, th’ _Imperial Thief_? France with her soul beneath a Bourbon’s thrall, And Germany that has no soul at all,— States quailing at the giant overgrown, Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone? No, ye are rich in fame e’en whilst ye bleed: _We_ cannot aid you—_we_ are poor indeed! In Fate’s defiance—in the world’s great eye, Poland has won her Immortality! The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now, Could tear not Glory’s garland from her brow; Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renowned, And all her ashes would be holy ground!