CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 169 



THE POLISH MOTHER. 



The Polish mother sat and wept 



Afar in wild Siberia's land, 

 Her lovely little infant slept, 



Cradled upon her knee and hand : 

 She gazed upon his placid face, 



His father's image, mild but brave, 

 Anxious she gazed if she could trace 

 One feature of a slave. 



" Ah, no !" she cried, " thou art, my son, 

 Thy father's son, who died so brave ; 

 I'd rather that thy race was run. ' 



Than nurture thee to be a slave ! 

 Yes, I would rather dig thy grave, 



And lay thee there without a tear, 

 Than suckle thee, that tyrant knave 

 Should dare enslave thee here. 



" But I will tell thee of thy sire 



I'll tell thee of thy country's shame, 

 And I will mark thy young breast's fire, 



And fan and feed the flame : 

 I'll tell thee of our Russian foe, 



Who came into our land once free, 

 And sent us to this land of snow, 

 To die in slavery! 



" I'll tell thee how that Europe gazed 



And wonder'd Poles could face each horde, 

 But how they only look'd and praised, 



Nor sought to aid the patriot's sword ! 

 I'll tell thee too, when Warsaw fell, 



What cruelties our nation bore, 



And when thou growest, I will tell 



Thee Be a slave no more. 



