Host on host around her gather;
Must she for you look in vain ?
Where, O Poland, are thy lances?
Europe needs them once again
O for Kosciusko's legions—
Those that Poniatowsky led-
They who charged at gory Grokow-
Those who with Dombrouski bled!
Hearts that, Frenchmen, for your glory,
Pour'd their streaming blood like rain!
Where, O Poland, are thy lances?
Europe needs them once again.
Yes, we need them in the struggle,
Look'd for long, where Europe fights,
Arm'd for all that makes her glory,
Arts and freedom-thoughts and rights;
Shall the Tartar's trampling horse-hoofs
Make the boast of ages vain?
Where, O Poland, are thy lances ?
Europe needs them once again.
Shall no more thy snow-white eagle
Sweep the battle as of yore?
Shall we see thy countless pennons
Streaming down the charge no more?
Must we for thy old free war-cry
Henceforth listen all in vain ?
Where, O Poland, are thy lances?
Europe needs them once again.
Europe needs them! Ah! how swiftly
Would they answer to her cry:
"Poland, Europe gives you freedom;
"Guard her freedom, Poles, or die !"
'Gainst the North, what better rampart
Than your free hearts can we gain?
Where, O Poland, are thy lances ?
Europe needs them once again.
THE HORRID METAMORPHOSIS.
"My passport was made out in the name of William Smith." LOUIS PHILIPPE, at Newhaven..
COME all you kings and rulers,
All you to whom belong
The souls and goods of nations,
Come, listen to my song;
For better than all sermons
you the times should preach :
Then hearken to the lessons,
The wisdom that they teach;
Oh! 'tis an awful story,
This tale they school you with,
How one of you, a week since,
Was changed into a Smith.
This king was in his palace,
All in his Tuileries,
And much he slapp'd his pockets,
And much he felt at ease;
Now telling up his millions,
Now musing how he'd won
By villainy and tricking
A kingdom for his son;
No cruel chance of tripping
His old thought's troubled with;
He little thinks of changing
In one week to a Smith.
Ah, how he'd duped his people!
How he the fools had done
Who, making him their monarch,
Had dream'd their freedom won;
Had dream'd in changing rulers
They changed their ruling too,
That what the Bourbon fail'd in,
The Orleans ne'er would do;
All this he thinks, and chuckles
His silence mingle with;
Old man there's yet a future-
You yet may be a Smith.
He reckons up his winnings
With cunning smiles and glee,
September laws safe gagging
The press he swore to free;
Select, bought-up elections-
Chambers that placemen fill-
The right to grumble pending
Upon his royal will;
O why the people's growlings
Should he concern him with?
Has he not forts and bayonets?
Who'll make of him a Smith ?
His thoughts are of the dinnerThere's joy above his frownBugeaud will flesh his bayonetsBugeaud will hew them down; A hundred thousand sabres,
And dripping all their bladesAh, faith, your smile has meaning, King of the Barricades ! Yet sure some mocking devil Your thought is busy with; And trust me, King, he's sneering, To think of you as Smith.
A day has gone;—the sunshine
Peers coldly through each pane
Of that old Bourbon palace,
And there's our king again?
His yesterday, so stormy,
Has sleepless made his night,
But yet he trusts to shuffles
To end the matter right;
THE HORRID METAMORPHOSIS.
For Molé, for a moment,
Guizot's been parted with;
Knaves will themselves be duping-
He'll know it when he's Smith.
The hum-the rush of thousands-
The rising city's roar―
Notre Dame the tocsin's ringing,
St. Antoine's up once more;
The Boulevards thick are piling
Their barricades full fast:
The Nationals, they waver—
The Line's faith, will it last?
Thiers-Barrot-he's crownless;
All's gone; they've settled with
The old knave and his ruling,
And Louis Philippe's Smith.
A sorry cab is flying
For near St. Cloud he's bound;
For alms among the soldiers
His old hat's going round.
Now comes a week of dodging,
Of dread that they'll condemn
His kingship to the mercy
That he had shown to them;
Now, millions, crown and whiskers,
And fear all parted with,
He steams towards Newhaven,
A Mr. William Smith.
O well this awful story
May shock each royal ear!
And yet I trust its warning
To all is passing clear.
The moral you'll be drawing
From this my tale of France,
Is plainly, Kings and rulers,
Step out, my crowns,—advance ;
Or incomes, thrones, and whiskers,
You'll, friends, be parting with,
For pilot coats and Claremonts,
And passports fill'd with Smith.
Now the fields are full of flowers;
Now, in ev'ry country lane,
Making mirth and gladness ours,
Wild-flowers nod and blush again;
Now they stain
Heath and lane,
Long'd-for lost ones come again.
Now the mower, on his scythe
Leaning, wipes his furrow'd brow;
Many a song the milkmaid blithe
Carols through the morning now;
Clear and strong
With the clanking pail along.
Gaily lusty Roger now
Through the furrows plods along,
Singing to the creaking plough
Many a quaint old country song;
Morning rings
With the praise of other Springs.
Children now in every school
Wish away the weary hours;
Doubly now they feel the rule
Barring them from buds and flowers;
How they shout,
Lanes and fields to race about!
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