DE BERANGKR AND HIS SONGS. 49 



When from the tribune torn by brutal force, 



His patriot voice the nation's rage allays ; 

 Siill hate pursues, insulting e'en his corse! 



Aid, then, the bard a monument to raise. 



Down his pale cheek cours'd many a scalding tear, 



'When twelve years, in an unhappy hour — 

 Amidst the ruin of all we hold most dear, 



Base treachery gave France to foreign pow'r. 

 'Tvvas then we met the vet'ran of Arcole — 



Smil'd, as I sung of former glorious days — 

 Frenchmen, your tears the humble bard console, — 



Tiien grant his wish, a monument to raise. 



Yes, let a tomb bear witness to our grief; 



Of virtue's friends the assistance 1 invoke, 

 Frenchmen, sweet peace shall come to our relief, 



Willi hope of Freedom, e'en beneath our yoke. 

 Pay then these lines, which celebrate his name, 



The humblest oft''ring shall reward my lays — 

 Of Manuel to consecrate the fame ! 



Aid your poor bard a monument to raise. 



Our third specimen, " La Mort de Poniatowski," was written in 18-3'2, 

 and published with some others, for the benefit of the Polish exiles ; De 

 Beranger being unable to contribute to their relief from his own purse, 

 with his usual benevolence, took this means of aiding them, — we need 

 scarcely add, no inefficient one. 



Joseph Poniatowski, nephew of the last king of Poland, served in the 

 armies of France, for several years, and after the battle of Leipsic, 

 Napoleon raised him to the rank of Marshal, and gave him the 

 command of a body of Poles and French. Tht ISth of October, 

 1813, the bridges of the Elster having been destroyed, Poniatowski with 

 his division covered the retreat of the French army ; and, after perform- 

 ing prodigies of valour, rejected all overtures to surrender made to him, 

 by the allies. Though dangerously wounded, he exclaimed, ," God has 

 confided to me the honour of the Poles, I will surrender it but to God," 

 and dashing into the river on horseback, he attempted to gain the 

 opposite bank, but exhausted from loss of blood, and carried away by the 

 force of the current, he sunk to rise no more. 



THE DEATH OF PONIATOWSKI. ' 



Ye fly, ye fly, the conquerors of the world ! 



Slmll l.eipsic see us lose this hard-fought day ? 



liave ye not seen inio the river huil'd 



The blown-up bridge, Ihe torrent bears away ? 



Horses, dragoons, artillery, grenadiers — 



Ail are erigulpli'd who have its passage braved ! 



On rolls the Elster, deaf to ciies and tears; 



" A single hand, Frtnchnien, and I am saved." 



" A single hand !'' 'lis vain in this sad horn, 

 r,;ich presses foiward, anxious but to flee — 

 l{iit who is he the angry waves devour, 

 I'icrccd by ihrei' wounds? 'Tis Poniatowski ! 

 M.M, 1. B 



