Whilst, envying bosoms bared to shot and steel,
I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel.
Poles! with what indignation I endure
Th’ half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor;
Poor! is it England mocks you with her grief,
That hates, but dares not chide, th’ Imperial Thief?
France with her soul beneath a Bourbon’s thrall,
And Germany that has no soul at all,—
States quailing at the giant overgrown,
Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone?