No, ye are rich in fame e’en whilst ye bleed:
We cannot aid you—we are poor indeed!
In Fate’s defiance—in the world’s great eye,
Poland has won her Immortality!
The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now,
Could tear not Glory’s garland from her brow;
Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renowned,
And all her ashes would be holy ground!
But turn, my soul, from presages so dark:
Great Poland’s spirit is a deathless spark