j|g SON OF THE STRANGER. 



Had Picton lived, and lived to fight. 

 The " Emperor" had seen new light : 

 That spark of fire which Polish youth 

 Kindles in every breast of truth. 



Had Brunswick's lord escaped the ball 

 That scorch'd his blood before his fall- 

 Throughout the isles the cry of " woe r 

 Had rent the air — " weep, Waterloo . 



Brave Polander ! thy country's mine— 

 Her soil, immortal. Fill with wine '.— 

 Immortal shines her stolen gem 

 Alone which gilds his diadem. 



Drink deeper stiU. Murder is rife, 

 When Russian serfs promote the strife ; 



And Catherine may well demand 



The bloody knife, the gory hand. 



And Paul, the wisest of those fools — 

 At best but kindred tyrants' tools — 

 May well deserve our brave disgust. 

 While his own dagger eats its rust. 



But where walks he, miscalled the great. 

 Whose pride and power endured defeat ? 

 Do thebe-fabled, mad-brained shades 

 Preserve his spirit, or — Jack Cade's ? 



Osiris' darknes? glooms that soil 



Where riots still on human spoil 



Earth's tyrant, man : those vampire kings 



With whose " vain words" all Europe rings. 



Fill up the chalice ! Let it pass 



As quickly as your bright cuirass 



Into the cold Siberian breast 



Of him — who owns vile slavery's crest. 



Divine refresher ! wine, bright wine ! 

 Thou crown' St the spell of love divine ; 

 On ear' h beneath, e'en tyranny 

 Dare not usurp — dear woman's plea. 



Poland ! for thee shall we despair ? 

 Or shall we toast all patriots there ? 

 The Eagle of the Sun is ours — 

 A righteous cause and heavenlv powers. 



Sempbr Fidklis. 



