Classic Poem

Ode Iv., Book 4.

C ASIMIR S ARBIEWSKI .

As slow the plough the oxen plied,
Close by the Danubes rolling tide,
With old Galeski for their guide—
The Dacian farmer—
His eye amid the furrows spied
Men's bones and armour.

The air was calm, the sun was low,
Calm was the mighty river's flow,
And silently, with footsteps slow,
Laboured the yoke;
When fervently, with patriot glow,
The veteran spoke:

“Halt ye, my oxen! Pause we here
Where valour's vestiges appear,
And Islaam's relics far and near
Lurk in the soil;
While Poland on victorious spear
Rests from her toil.

Ave! well she may triumphant rest,
Adorn with glory's plume her crest,
And wear of victory the vest,
Elate and flushed:
Oft was the Pavaim's pride repressed—
Here IT WAS CRUSHED !

Here the tremendous deed was done,
Here the transcendant trophy won,
Where fragments lie of sword and gun,
And lance and shield,
And Turkey's giant skeleton
Cumbers the field!

Heavens! I remember well that day,
Of warrior men the proud display,
Of brass and steel the dread array—
Van, flank, and rear;
How my young heart the charger's neigh
Throbbed high to hear!

How gallantly our lancers stood,
Of bristling spears an iron wood,
Fraught with a desperate hardihood
That naught could daunt,
And burning for the bloody feud,
Fierce, grim, and gaunt!

Then rose the deadly din of fight;
Then shouting charged, with all his might,
Of Wilna each Teutonic knight,
And of St. John's,
While flashing out from vonder height
Thundered the bronze.

Dire was the struggle in the van,
Fiercely we grappled man with man,
Till soon the Pavnim chiels began
For breath to gasp;
When Warsaw folded Jspahan
In deadly grasp.

So might a tempest grasp a pine,
Tall giant of the Apennine,
Whose rankling roots deep undermine
The mountain's base:
Fitting antagonists to twine
In stern embrace.

Loud rung on helm, and coat of mail,
Of musketry the racting hail;
Of wounded men loud rose the wail
In dismai rout:
And now alternate would prevail
The victor's shout.

Long time amid the vapours dense
The fire of battle raged intense,
While V ICTORY held in suspense
The scales on high:
But Poland in her FAITH'S defence
Maun do or die!

Rash was the hope, and poor the chance,
Of blunting that victorious lance;
Though Turkey from her broad expanse
Brought all her sons,
Swelling with tenfold arrogance,
Hell's myrmidons!

Stout was each Cossack heart and hand,
Brave was our Lithuanian band,
But Gallantry's own native land
Sent forth the Poles;
And Valour's flame shone nobly fanned
In patriot souls.

Large be our allies' meed of fame!
Rude Russia to the rescue came,
From land of frost, with brand of flame—
A glorious horde:
Huge havoc here these bones proclaim,
Done by her sword.

Pale and aghast the crescent fled,
Joyful we clove each turbanned head,
Heaping with holocausts of dead
The foeman's camp:
Loud echoed o'er their gory bed
Our horsemen's tramp.

A hundred trees one hatchet hews;
A hundred doves one hawk pursues;
One Polish gauntlet so can bruise
Their miscreant clay:
As well the kaliph kens who rues
That fatal day.

What though, to meet the tug of war,
Osman had gathered from afar
Arab, and Sheik, and Hospodar,
And Copt, and Guébre,
Quick yielded Pagan scimitar
To Christian sabre.

Here could the Turkman turn and trace
The slaughter-tracks, here slowly pac,
The field of downfal and disgrace,
Where men and horse,
Thick strewn, encumbered all the placs
With frequent corse.

Well might his haughty soul repent
That rash and guilty armament;
Weep for the blood of nations spent,
His ruined host;
His empty arrogance lament,
And bitter boast.

Sorrow, derision, scorn, and hate,
Upon the proud one's footsteps wait;
Both in the field and in the gate
Accursed, abhorred;
And be his halls made desolate
With fire and sword!”

Such was the tale Galeski told,
Calm as the mighty Danube rolled;
And well I ween that farmer old,
Who held a plough,
Had fought that day a warrior bold
With helmèd brow.

But now upon the glorious stream
The sun flung out his parting beam,
The soldier-swain unyoked his team,
Yet still he chaunted
The live-long eve:—and glory's dream
His pillow haunted.