He on Polonia’s Golgotha will plant
His standard fresh; and, horde succeeding horde,
On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword,
For more stupendous slaughters of the free.
Then Europe’s realms, when their best blood is poured,
Shall miss thee, Poland! as they bend the knee,
All—all in grief, but none in glory likening thee.
Why smote ye not the giant whilst he reeled?
O, fair occasion, gone for ever by!
To have locked his lances in their northern field,