And dared the vengeance of the Russ, whose sway is yclept divine?
And have we not appealed to arms—our last and dearest right!
And is not ours a sacred cause, a just and holy fight?
Yes, on Sarmatia's bleeding form Oppression's fetters rang,
And Liberty's last dying dirge the Northern trumpet sang:
Our hopes were buried in the grave where Kosciusko lies;
There came not friendship then from earth—nor mercy from the skies!
But Heaven has roused the Polish slave and bid him rend his chains,
And now we rank among the free—"Our country yet remains:"
Again we seek our native rights by God and Nature given—