THE LAST HOUR OF THE POLONESE.

Yet few in peril now are blest

While thousands war within

High floats proud Albion's scornful crest-
Who shall the glory win?

Soul of the battle! son of Gaul!
Beware thy dauntless tread!

The bastion shakes-the ramparts fall-
The dying and the dead

Lie mingled 'neath yon trembling tower
Where fires through darkness glow-
On! on! 'tis victory's chosen hour!
Why shrink the siegers now?

Where is Pulaski?

Where the Gaul

Sheds life upon the ground,

Where Death stalks o'er the shatter'd wall,

And mad Rout cries around!

Hark! Flight and Terror hear his cry

And Glory lights his spear—

They mount! they mount! they fall! they fly!
Where is that Form of Fear!

Low on the green turf bleeding, dead!

Despair beside him lies,

Fame from his plume and helm hath fled

The light of all his victories!

Who doth lament the hero gone?

The Patriot fall'n? Two nations there;

Poland, her last devoted son!

Columbia! her glory's heir!

75

THE CAPTURE OF ANDRE.

"T was the midnight hour, when the Traitor bade His country's foe adieu,

And broken gleams of moonlight played

The dew-dropp'd foliage through;

The autumnal wind, in gusty sighs,

The twinkling forest fann'd,

While Love seemed stooping from the skies,

To bless a bleeding land.

Ill-fated chief! youth on thy brow,

Ambition in thy heart,

Fame smiles in gladness on thee now

Oh, haste not to depart!

A voice comes from the wildwood dim,
But breathes no midnight prayer,

And

vague vast forms like shadows swimLo! war and death are there!

Hark to the sound of the measured tread!
Mark yon quick shooting gleam!

Stern hearts are where that flash is shed-
Yon white tents are no dream;

Thy path lies through a host of men
Whose souls are in their swords,

And a cross of shame is in yon glen—
They heed no gentle words.

Oh! gallant is thy proud array,
But souls as proud as thine,
Like meteor lights, around thy way
In gloom of battle shine.

Beware the scathe of their patriot ire!

Though the Traitor gives thee scope

Beware the blaze of the beacon fire!
Or thou hast no farther hope.

On, on the Briton warrior goes,

And the Traitor bids God speed!
Through the banded line of his sleeping foes-
Young hero! take good heed!

The woods are silent, but life is there,

And the weapons of war are round,

And a lone far cry rings on the air-
Thou art on forbidden ground!

"Who rides so late?" Three warriors start

From the shattered ravine dun,

And fear sinks on the Briton's heart,

For his camp is almost won.

Speak out the watchword!" sternly gleam

The bayonets raised on high,—

He looked to wood and field and stream,

But uttered no reply.

78

THE CAPTURE OF ANDRE.

He marched to death with a daunted heart,
For his was the doom of shame;
And his spirit shrunk from earth to part
With a brand upon his name:

And his sternest foe bewailed the fate
That stained his pride of mind,

As he stood in his last hour desolate,
To death, not shame, resigned.

He looked to the glorious sun and sighed,
And to earth he gave a tear,

And then, with a thought, he cast aside
The weight of his grief and fear.

For a moment's lapse each panting breath

Was heard amid the crowd,

Then the platform fell, and the groan of death
Rose fearfully wild and loud.