Warsaw’s last champion from her height surveyed,
Wide o’er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,—
“Oh! Heaven!” he cried, “my bleeding country save!—
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!
And swear for her to live!—with her to die!”
He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;