TO THE WARRIORS OF POLAND. 659 



As soon as the fiddle became the property of the hosier, he ordered 

 a coach, and repaired to the house of the gentleman whose card he 

 possessed. The servants informed him that their master was at home, 

 and he was soon introduced into the library. He found himself in 

 the presence of a gentleman very different in appearance from him 

 whom he had seen in the morning. However, he produced the 

 fiddle, a receipt for the money he had paid, and the card, and begged 

 to know when he could see the owner. The gentleman appeared 

 surprised, and, indeed, the man of stockings very soon became con- 

 vinced that there must be some mistake. The gentleman acknow- 

 ledged the card to be his, but declared himself quite ignorant of the 

 transaction. The hosier was struck with dismay, and returned home 

 in a most disconsolate state, yet not without hopes that the person 

 who had advanced the money would soon make his appearance to 

 claim the fiddle he had so much coveted. At all events, the instru- 

 ment was valuable, and he might, after all, make a handsome profit. 

 He was relieved from all suspense by the arrival of a customer, who 

 was a musical instrument maker ; who, having examined the instru- 

 ment, declared it to be a Dutch fiddle, value about eighteen and six- 

 pence ! The sound of a fiddle, ever after, threw the hosier into fits ! 



TO THE WARRIORS OF POLAND. 



DROOP not, ye brave ! though wide around you scatter'd 

 The blossoms lie from Freedom's shaken tree ; 

 Though gone that embryo fruit, whose promise flatter'd, 

 Oh ! droop not ! soon another spring shall see 

 The soil, so fed, teem more abundantly : 

 The trunk, as branch by branch is lopp'd away, 

 More keenly feels the life-blood bounding free ; 

 So Liberty, concentred thus, will play, 

 All wildly rushing forth to mock the might of clay ! 



. Blench not, ye brave ! although the dastard nations, 

 Aged, and cold, and callous, will not know 

 The lofty hopes, proud aim, and young impatience, 

 That nerve your arm to strike th' avenging blow : 

 Oh ! blench not ! soon the war-stream's ruddy flow, 

 Now sinking in your native plains, shall rise 

 In lands remote, and sweep those cravens low ; 

 Who, from their tott'ring thrones, with coward eyes 



Beheld your glorious deeds, yet dare not sympathize ! 



Yield not, ye brave ! far better to be lying, 

 Gory and gasping, on your thresholds dear ; 

 And blending (as undying with undying) 

 Your spirits with glad Freedom's spirit clear ! 

 Oh ! yield not ! though o'erwhelming hosts appear ; 

 Still may the Patriot's sword triumphant wave, 

 And guard six feet of ground to hold his bier ! . 

 And, when oblivion shrouds yon Victor-slave, 

 Shall pious pilgrims seek the Freeman's holy grave ! 



J. MARSHALL. 



