Classic Poem

Poniatowski

What! would ye fly? you, conquerors of the world?
Hath Fortune blundered before Leipzic's walls?
What, flying! whilst the bridge, blown up and hurled
In ruins back, to the hoarse torrent falls!
Men, horses, arms, all plunging pell-mell there,
The choked-up Elster rolls encumbered by:
But deaf it rolls to vow, lament, or prayer —
" A hand, a hand! O Frenchmen, lest I die! "

" A hand, a hand! a plague on him who craves!
Onward! press on! for whom should we delay? "
'Tis for a hero sinking in the waves;
'Tis Poniatowski, wounded thrice to-day
Who cares? 'tis Terror prompts such barbarous speed;
No heart is touched of all that throng the strand:
The waters part him from his faithful steed;
" Frenchmen, to save me, stretch but forth a hand! "

He dies — not yet — he struggles — swims — once more
The charger's mane his clutching fingers feel
" What! to die drowned! whilst yet upon the shore
I hear the cannon, and I see the steel!
Help, comrades, help! you boasted I was brave:
How I have loved you — let my blood declare!
Ah! 'tis for France some drops I still would save!
Frenchmen, a hand, to save me from despair! "

Help there is none! and now his failing hand
Droops from its hold: " Poland, adieu, adieu! "
But, lo! a dream, at Heaven's express command,
With brilliant image cheers his soul anew
" Ha! the White Eagle to the combat wakes —
All soaked with Russian blood, at length it flies;
Loud on mine ear a hymn of glory breaks:
Frenchman, a hand, and I am saved! " he cries.

Help there was none! no more he lives — the foe
Along the reedy shore their bivouac made:
That day is distant; but a voice of woe
Still calls beneath the waters' deepest shade.
And now, (great God! give man a willing ear,)
That mournful voice is lifted to the sky!
Wherefore, should Heaven re-echo to us here,
" A hand, a hand! O Frenchmen, lest I die! "

Still 'tis from Poland — her true sons' lament:
How oft our battles have they helped to gain!
Herself she drowns in her own heart's-blood, spent
With lavish flow, her honor to maintain
As then the Chief — whose mangled corse was found
In Elster's waves, who perished for our land —
Now shouts a Nation, o'er a gulf profound,
" A hand to save us, Frenchmen, but a hand! "