Hope kindles on my native shore
No more her beacon fires—
The Northern Bear is trampling o'er
The dust of fallen sires,
And signal ever to destroy
Hath been his growl of savage joy.
Oh! for one hour of glory gone—
An arm of might to hurl
The Czar, in thunder, from his throne,
And Freedom's flag unfurl;
Then welcome, like a bride, the grave,
Unbranded by the name of slave!
Our snowy Eagle [3] screams no more
Defiance high and loud;
The wing is broken that could soar
Through battle's smoky cloud,
And wounded by a coward's spear,
His perch is now lost Poland's bier.
Once happy was the hall of Home,
Now Desolation's lair—
Blood stains its hearth, and I must roam
A pilgrim of despair,
Leaving, when heart and brain grow cold,
My weary bones in foreign mould.