An age elapsed—when men were dead or grey, Whose hearts had mourned him in their youthful day Fame traced on Mannicōlo’s shore at last The boiling surge had mounted o’er his mast. The islesmen told of some surviving men, But Christian eyes beheld them ne’er again. Sad bourne of all his toils—with all his band— To sleep, wrecked, shroudless, on a savage strand! Yet what is all that fires a hero’s scorn Of death?—the hope to live in hearts unborn: Life to the brave is not its fleeting breath, But worth—foretasting fame, that follows death. That worth had La Perouse—that meed he won; He sleeps—his life’s long stormy watch is done. In the great deep, whose boundaries and space He measured, Fate ordained his resting-place; But bade his fame, like th’ Ocean rolling o’er His relics—visit every earthly shore. Fair Science on that Ocean’s azure robe, Still writes his name in picturing the globe, And paints—(what fairer wreath could Glory twine?) His watery course—a world-encircling line. THE POWER OF RUSSIA. So all this gallant blood has gushed in vain! And Poland by the Northern Condor’s beak And talons torn, lies prostrated again. O, British patriots, that were wont to speak Once loudly on this theme, now hushed or meek! O, heartless men of Europe—Goth and Gaul! Cold, adder-deaf to Poland’s dying shriek;— That saw the world’s last land of heroes fall— The brand of burning shame is on you all—all—all! But this is not the drama’s closing act; Its tragic curtain must uprise anew. Nations, mute accessaries to the fact! That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o’er you The lengthening shadow of its head elate— A deadly shadow, darkening nature’s hue. To all that’s hallowed, righteous, pure, and great, Wo! wo! when they are reached by Russia’s withering hate. Russia, that on his throne of adamant, Consults what nation’s breast shall next be gored: He on Polonia’s Golgotha will plant His standard fresh; and, horde succeeding horde, On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword, For more stupendous slaughters of the free. Then Europe’s realms, when their best blood is poured, Shall miss thee, Poland! as they bend the knee, All—all in grief, but none in glory likening thee. Why smote ye not the giant whilst he reeled? O, fair occasion, gone for ever by! To have locked his lances in their northern field, Innocuous as the phantom chivalry That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky! Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o’er the land Once Poland; build thy bristling castles high; Dig dungeon’s deep; for Poland’s wrested brand Is now a weapon new to widen thy command—