Thee, Niemciewitz,[90] whose song of stirring power The Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands; Thee, Czartoryski, in thy banished bower, The patricide, who in thy palace stands, May envy; proudly may Polonia’s bands Throw down their swords at Europe’s feet in scorn, Saying—“Russia, from the metal of these brands Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn; Our setting star is your misfortune’s rising morn.” [90] This venerable man, the most popular and influential of Polish poets, and president of the Academy of Warsaw, was in London when this poem was written; he was seventy-four years old; but his noble spirit was rather mellowed than decayed by age. He was the friend of Fox, Kosciusko, and Washington. Rich in anecdote like Franklin, he bore also a striking resemblance to him in countenance. REULLURA.[91] Star of the morn and eve, Reullura shone like thee, And well for her might Aodh grieve, The dark-attired Culdee.[92] Peace to their shades! the pure Culdees Were Albyn’s earliest priests of God, Ere yet an island of her seas By foot of Saxon monk was trod, Long ere her churchmen by bigotry Were barred from holy wedlock’s tie. ’Twas then that Aodh, famed afar, In Iona preached the word with power, And Reullura, beauty’s star, Was the partner of his bower. But, Aodh, the roof lies low, And the thistle-down waves bleaching, And the bat flits to and fro Where the Gael once heard thy preaching, And fall’n is each columned aisle Where the chiefs and the people knelt. ’Twas near that temple’s goodly pile That honoured of men they dwelt. For Aodh was wise in the sacred law, And bright Reullura’s eyes oft saw The veil of fate uplifted. Alas, with what visions of awe Her soul in that hour was gifted— When pale in the temple and faint, With Aodh she stood alone By the statue of an aged Saint! Fair sculptured was the stone, It bore a crucifix; Fame said it once had graced A Christian temple, which the Picts In the Britons’ land laid waste: The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught, Had hither the holy relic brought. Reullura eyed the statue’s face, And cried, “It is he shall come, Even he in this very place, To avenge my martyrdom. “For, woe to the Gael people! Ulvfagre is on the main, And Iona shall look from tower and steeple On the coming ships of the Dane; And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks With the spoiler’s grasp entwine? No! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks, And the deep sea shall be mine. Baffled by me shall the Dane return, And here shall his torch in the temple burn, Until that holy man shall plough The waves from Innisfail.[93] His sail is on the deep e’en now, And swells to the southern gale.”