Its tragic curtain must uprise anew.
Nations, mute accessaries to the fact!
That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew
Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o’er you
The lengthening shadow of its head elate—
A deadly shadow, darkening nature’s hue.
To all that’s hallowed, righteous, pure, and great,
Wo! wo! when they are reached by Russia’s withering hate.
Russia, that on his throne of adamant,
Consults what nation’s breast shall next be gored: