But if there should be none to aid you, Poles, Ye’ll but to prouder pitch wind up your souls, Above example, pity, praise or blame, To sow and reap a boundless field of Fame. Ask aid no more from Nations that forget Your championship—old Europe’s mighty debt. Though Poland (Lazarus-like) has burst the gloom, She rises not a beggar from the tomb: In Fortune’s frown, on Danger’s giddiest brink, Despair and Poland’s name must never link. All ills have bounds—plague, whirlwind, fire, and flood: E’en power can spill but bounded sums of blood. States caring not what freedom’s price may be, May late or soon, but must at last be free; For body-killing tyrants cannot kill The public soul—the hereditary will That downward as from sire to son it goes, By shifting bosoms more intensely glows: Its heir-loom is the heart, and slaughtered men Fight fiercer in their orphans o’er again. Poland recasts—though rich in heroes old,— Her men in more and more heroic mould: Her Eagle-ensign best among mankind Become, and types her eagle-strength of mind: Her praise upon my faltering lips expires: Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres! [88] The fact ought to be universally known, that France was indebted to Poland for not being invaded by Russia. When the Duke Constantine fled from Warsaw, he left papers behind him proving that the Russians, after the Parisian events in July, meant to have marched towards Paris, if the Polish insurrection had not prevented them. LINES ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS. In the deep blue of eve, Ere the twinkling of stars had begun, Or the lark took his leave Of the skies and the sweet setting sun, I climbed to yon heights, Where the Norman encamped him of old,[89] With his bowmen and knights, And his banner all burnished with gold. At the Conqueror’s side There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, In pavilion wide; And they chaunted the deeds of Roland. Still the ramparted ground With a vision my fancy inspires, And I hear the trump sound, As it marshalled our Chivalry’s sires. On each turf of that mead Stood the captors of England’s domains, That ennobled her breed And high-mettled the blood of her veins. Over hauberk and helm As the sun’s setting splendour was thrown, Thence they looked o’er a realm— And to-morrow beheld it their own. [89] What is called the East Hill at Hastings is crowned with the works of an ancient camp; and it is more than probable it was the spot which William I. occupied between his landing, and the battle which gave him England’s crown. It is a strong position: the works are easily traced. LINES WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF LA PEROUSE’S VOYAGES.