[ '198 ] . [FEB. 



THE POLISH WIDOW TO HEll SON. 



PLAY on, my lovely infant child, and I will watch the while 

 The ills, that sadden all around, have not yet check'd thy smile ; 

 And as thy cup of life may near its brim alone be sweet, 

 Be happy, ere the gathering clouds above thy path- way meet. 



Thou heedest not the sable robes thy little limbs that fold ; 

 Thy Father's and thy Country's fall are both to thee untold ; 

 The very eagles of our foe, that pass so proudly by, 

 Are mark'd by thee with childish joy, not knowing tyranny. 



But this will change the dream will pass and thou must learn the tale 

 Of deeds that blanch the manly cheek, and make our maidens pale ; 

 And when to me thou'lt sweetly turn of ages past to know, 

 Oh ! how shall I reply to thee, and hide a mother's woe ? 



To speak of Poland's ancient fame and then her fallen state ; 

 To mention Kosciuszko's name and then record his fate ; 

 To tell thee of a Father's love and then a Father's grave, 

 Who perish'd for that native land he had not power to save. 



Yes this will truth demand from me, a tale unspoken now, 

 And then, methinks, the cloud of grief will darken o'er thy brow ; 

 And make that youthful spirit, erst so gentle and so gay, 

 To thoughts of sadness and of strife become an early prey. 



And, when to manhood's state arrived, thou'lt spurn the Polish dance, 



To learn to urge the war-horse on, or couch the Polish lance ; 



The spirit of the fallen brave shall be revived in thee, 



And thou shalt long to strike a blow to set thy country free. 



In vain will dangers frown around, and prudence bid thee hold, 

 The ardour of a noble mind shall not be thus controll'd; 

 Though baffled oft, again, again the Poles will claim their right, 

 And rather die than tamely crouch before a despot's might. 



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Perchance that little hand, which now is grasping at the flower, 

 May be the first to draw the sword against oppression's power ; 

 Or to the Polish winds unfurl the banner of the free 

 They wafted it in days of yore, and what hath been may be. 



But, ah ! again the patriot band may only strive in vain 

 Against the myriads of the foe upon the Polish plain ; 

 And nations, powerful and free, again may view them fall, 

 Unmindful of Sobieski's name, or honour's sacred call. 



And then, my son, thy father's doom may speedily be thine 

 To meet the " soldier's fiery death" while in the foremost line ; 

 Or worse ! if wounded in the fray, with mingled pride and pain, 

 Through life amid Siberia's wastes to drag the galling chain. 



Oh ! fears have thrill'd the mother's breast, however Hope hath smiled, 

 Or Fortune seem'd to hover o'er the cradle of her child; 

 Then think, thou tyrant of our race, what feelings mine must be, 

 To see the prospects of my son thus darken'd o'er by thee ! 





