1495! 
 
 Jtes 
 
 II 
 
 SZKC 
 
 A TALE OF POLISH GRIEF 
 
 TIN 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 I UNIVERSITY OF 
 
LESZKO THE BASTARD. 
 
POETICAL WORKS, 
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 THE HUMAN TRAGEDY. Crown Svo. los. 6<t. 
 THE TOWER OF BABEL. Crown Svo. 9*. 
 MADONNA'S CHILD. Crown Svo. &.M. 
 INTERLUDES. Crown Svo. 5*. 
 THE GOLDEN AGE. Crown Svo. 5*. 
 THE SEASON : A SATIRE. Crown Svo. $s. 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON. 
 
LESZKO THE BASTARD 
 
 Mt at $dis& rwf. 
 
 BY 
 
 ALFRED AUSTIN 
 
 LONDON : 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1877. 
 
LONDON : 
 BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, \\HITEFRIAKS. 
 
 LOAN STACK 
 
TO 
 
 THE MOST EMINENT PHILANTHROPIST 
 OF HIS AGE, 
 
 Cljte -Poem t$ Utfcwatrtf 
 
 WITH PROFOUND HOMAGE ; 
 
 IN THE EARNEST HOPE 
 
 THAT IT MAY ENGAGE HIS SYMPATHY, AND SECURE HIS ZEAL, 
 
 FOR THE MOST OPPRESSED OF SCLAVONIC COMMUNITIES, 
 
 AND THE MOST PERSECUTED OF CHRISTIAN NATIONS. 
 
 yune if)tfi, 1877. 
 
 685 
 
LESZKO THE BASTARD, 
 
 0f olisl <ruf. 
 
 WHY do I bid the rising gale 
 
 To waft me from your shore ? 
 Why hail I, as the vultures hail, 
 
 The scent of far-off gore ? 
 Why wear I with defiant pride 
 
 The Paynim's badge and gear, 
 Though I am vowed to Christ that died, 
 And fain would staunch the gaping side 
 
 That felt the sceptic spear ? 
 And why doth one in whom there runs 
 
Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 The blood of Sclavic sires and sons, 
 
 In those but find a foe, 
 That onward march with sword and flame, 
 To vindicate the Sclavic name, 
 From the fringe of Arctic snows, 
 To the cradle of the rose, 
 
 Where the Sweet Waters flow ? 
 Strange ! But 'twere stranger yet if I, 
 When Turk and Tartar splinters fly, 
 
 Lagged far behind the van. 
 While the wind dallies with my sail, 
 Listen I and you shall hear my tale ; 
 
 Then marvel, if you can ! 
 
 " Nothing but snow ! A white waste world, 
 Far as eye reached, or voice could call ! 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 
 
 Motion within itself slept furled ; 
 
 The earth was dead, and Heaven its pall ! 
 Now nothing lived except the wind, 
 That, moaning round with restless mind, 
 
 Seemed like uncoffined ghost to flit 
 O'er vacant tracts, that it might find 
 
 Some kindred thing to speak with it. 
 Nothing to break the white expanse ! 
 
 No far, no near, no high, no low ! 
 Nothing to stop the wandering glance ! 
 
 One smooth monotony of snow ! 
 J lifted the latch, and I shivered in ; 
 
 My mother stood by the larch-log blaze, 
 My mother, stately, and tall, and thin, 
 With the shapely head and the soft white skin, 
 
 And the sweetly-sorrowing gaze. 
 
 B 2 
 
Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 She was younger than you, aye, you who stand 
 In matron prime by your household fire, 
 
 A happy wife in a happy land, 
 And with all your heart's desire. 
 
 But though bred, like you, from the proud and 
 brave, 
 
 Her hair was blanched and her voice was grave. 
 
 If you knew what it is to be born a slave, 
 And to feel a despot's ire ! 
 
 " She turned her round from the hearth like one 
 
 That hath waited long, and said, 
 1 Come hither, and sit by me, my son ! 
 For somehow to-night doth remembrance run 
 
 Back to the days that are dead. 
 And you are tall and stalwart now, 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 
 
 And coming manhood o'er your brow 
 
 Its shadow 'gins to shed. 
 Sit by me close ! ' and as I sate 
 
 Close, close as I could sit, 
 She took my hand and placed it flat 
 
 On hers, and fondled it. 
 Then with the same soft palm she brushed 
 
 My wind-tossed locks apart, 
 And, kissing my bared temples, hushed 
 The flow of love that else had gushed, 
 
 Love-loosened, from my heart. 
 
 " ' Listen ! you often have questioned why 
 Here 'neath this pale Siberian sky, 
 You scarcely live, I slowly die. 
 That we dwell on, but exiles here, 
 
Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 In regions barren, sunless, drear, 
 And have no more the power to fly 
 To brighter lands and bluer sky, 
 Than some poor bird whom man's caprice 
 Hath tethered by a clanking chain, 
 And leaves upon its perch in pain 
 To pine for, ne'er to find release, 
 This do you know, and still have known 
 Since first I taught your mouth to frame 
 The syllables of Poland's name, 
 Even before my own. 
 
 Ikit how could I to childhood's ears, 
 Or boyhood's, tell the tale of tears 
 That links me with the bygone years ? 
 Tale steeped in rapture, drenched with woe r 
 A tale of wrong, and loss, and love, 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 
 
 That opens in the heavens above, 
 And ends in worse than hell below ? 
 A tale I only could impart 
 To mind mature and full-grown heart ; 
 A tale to fill your larger life 
 
 With hissing waters of distress 
 
 And overflowing bitterness, 
 And set you with yourself at strife ? 
 But you must hear it now. The down 
 
 Of manhood fringes lip and cheek ; 
 Your temples take a richer brown, 
 And on your forehead buds the crown 
 
 Of kingly thought that yet will speak. 
 Listen ! and let no faintest word 
 Of all I utter fall unheard 
 
 Upon your ear or heart ! 
 
8 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 'Twill wring your youth, but nerve it too : 
 And what have I now left to do, 
 But unveil tyranny to view, 
 And wing the avenging dart ? 
 
 " ' So like to you ! The same blue eye, 
 
 Same lavish locks, same forehead high, 
 
 But of a manlier majesty ! 
 
 His limbs, like yours, were straight and strong, 
 
 Yet supple as the bough in bud ; 
 
 For tyrants cannot tame the blood, 
 Or noble lineage lose, through wrong 
 
 Its heritage of hardihood. 
 And maybe since his years were more, 
 
 And partly that you needs must bear 
 In every filial vein and pore 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 
 
 With his pure strain the base alloy 
 Of that in you which is my share, 
 Though you are tall and comely, boy ! 
 
 Yet he was taller, comelier. 
 In days that now but live in song, 
 When Rurik's hinds felt Poland's heel, 
 And Poland's horsemen, cased in steel, 
 To Volo's plain were wont to throng, 
 A hundred thousand manes in strength, 
 
 And vowed, if Heaven let fall the sky, 
 To uphold it on their lance's length 
 
 As 'twere a silken canopy ; 
 His sires were there in gallant trim, 
 H aught of mien and hard of limb- 
 Visors up and foreheads gashed, 
 Swords that poised, and swooped, and flashed, 
 
io Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 Like the wings of the flaming Cherubim ! 
 And when Imperial vultures tore 
 
 \Yith banded beaks Sarmatia's breast, 
 And wallowed in Sarmatia's gore, 
 His fathers by their fathers swore 
 
 Ne'er to recede nor rest, 
 Till they had pushed the watchful points 
 Of vengeance in between the joints 
 Of armour dear to tyrants pricked 
 Of conscience never hushed nor tricked, 
 And made them feel what they inflict. 
 Vow sternly kept, but kept in vain ! 
 
 For ninety hoping, hopeless years, 
 Poland hath known no couch save pain, 
 No mate except the dull cold chain, 
 
 Hath felt the lash, and fed on jeers, 
 
A Tale of PolisJi Grief. 1 1 
 
 While Heaven, it seems, no longer hears 
 
 The wail of prayers, the drip of tears, 
 Or the voices of the slain. 
 Thrice have her sons, despite their gyves, 
 Essayed to sell their worthless lives 
 
 At least against the price 
 Of ruin on their gaolers brought ; 
 But each brave stroke hath come to nought, 
 And blood, and wounds, and death, have brought,. 
 
 Only fresh bootless sacrifice. 
 No blow was struck they did not share, 
 
 No banner raised, but straight they flew 
 For one more tussle with despair ; 
 And ever as they fought, they fell, 
 
 Waxing still fewer and more few, 
 Till only one remained to tell 
 
12 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 How they had passed away, and dare 
 With front erect and unquelled stare 
 Those earthly ministers of hell. 
 One only of that kindred band 
 
 Like some last column gazing lone 
 Across the bare and brackish sand, 
 In a depopulated land, 
 
 Telling of times and temples flown ! 
 
 " ' He loved me. Love in every clime, 
 Through all vicissitudes of time, 
 Is life's climacteric and prime. 
 Matched against it, all boons that bless, 
 
 All joys we chase, all good we prize, 
 All that of tender and sublime 
 
 Expands the heart and fills the eyes, 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 1 3, 
 
 Tastes pitiful and savourless. 
 
 It glorifies the common air, 
 
 It clothes with light the mountains bare, 
 
 And shows the heavens all shining there. 
 
 It lifts our feet from off the ground, 
 
 It lets us walk along the skies ; 
 It makes the daily silence sound 
 
 With transcendental harmonies. 
 It rules the seasons. Linnets sing 
 As loud in winter as in spring, 
 When hearts are leal, and love is king. 
 Bathed in its light, the distance glows 
 With all the colours of the rose. 
 Its vivid gaze blends far and near 
 In one delicious atmosphere, 
 
 Projects the future from the past, 
 
14 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 And hugs the faith, without a fear, 
 
 Since love is all, that all will last. 
 The peevish voice of cloubt grows dumb ; 
 
 The demons of dejection flee ; 
 And even sordid cares become 
 
 But a divine anxiety. 
 Hope sails no more in far-off skies, 
 But makes its nest upon the ground ; 
 And happiness, coy wing that flies 
 
 Too oft when mortal yearning woos, 
 At love's sweet summons circling round, 
 
 Sits on the nearest bough, and coos. 
 
 " * Yes ! such is love in every land, 
 If blest or curst, enslaved or free. 
 But how can they whose chainless hand 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 
 
 May stretch towards all they dream or see, 
 Whose lungs exult, whose lives expand, 
 In air of bracing liberty, 
 Feel love's delirium like to those 
 
 Who, of all other bliss bereft, 
 And cooped from each hale wind that blows, 
 Fondle, amid a world of foes, 
 
 The solitary friend that's left ? 
 Through whatso regions freemen roam, 
 They find a hearth, they make a home. 
 Their unfenced energies embrace 
 All realms of thought, all fields of space, 
 At each fresh step fresh prospects find, 
 Larger than any left behind, 
 And mount with still rewarded stress 
 From happiness to happiness. 
 
1 6 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 E'en love itself for such can bring 
 
 To life's tuned lyre but one more string, 
 
 Or but with fingers subtly straying 
 
 Among the chords, and softly playing, 
 Make more harmonious everything. 
 But when to him whose hopes are bound 
 Within a dismal prison round, 
 Whose thoughts, suspected, must not soar 
 Beyond his straitened dungeon floor, 
 Who may not speak, nor groan, nor sigh, 
 
 Nor lend sharp agony a vent, 
 Lest those should hear him who are nigh, 
 And catch, perchance, in passing by, 
 
 Contagion from his discontent ; 
 Who dwells an exile in his home, 
 And cannot rest and may not roam ; 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 1 7 
 
 Whom even hope doth not delude ; 
 Who vainly lives, in vain would die, 
 And, hemmed in close, alike would fly, 
 
 Society and solitude ; 
 Oh ! when to such as he love brings 
 
 o 
 
 Message of heaven upon its wings, 
 It fills his heart, it floods his brain, 
 Riots in every pulse and vein, 
 And turns to paradise his pain. 
 Body, and soul, and sense conspire 
 To feed the rising, rushing fire. 
 
 The passions which are wont to share 
 Love's empire o'er distracted man, 
 Denied their outlet, in him fan 
 
 The exclusive fury of desire. 
 As one who faints of thirst, he takes 
 
iS Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 Swiftly what should be slowly quaffed, 
 With ravenous lips his fever slakes, 
 Then dies, delirious, of the draught ! 
 
 " ' He loved me. Do you ask if I 
 His love returned ? Go, ask the sky 
 If it in vain pours sun and shower 
 On herb and leaf, on tree and flower. 
 Go, ask of echo if it wakes 
 
 When voice in lonely places calls ; 
 Ask of the silence if it takes 
 
 The sound of plashing waterfalls : 
 Ask the parched plains if they refuse 
 The solace of descending dews ; 
 Ask the unrippled lake that lies 
 
 Under faint fleecy clouds that flit, 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 19 
 
 If it reflects with tender eyes 
 
 The heavenly forms that gaze on it ; 
 But ask not me if I returned 
 The love with which his being burned. 
 His passion such, in any heart 
 It straight had worked its counterpart, 
 Woke its own echo, roused a tone 
 In perfect concert with its own, 
 And made, the instant that it shone, 
 Mirror of what it gazed upon. 
 
 " ' We loved, as few have loved before, 
 'Chance none ; and lo ! the hour drew nigh 
 
 To ratify the vows we swore 
 One night beneath the sky, 
 
 Before the solemn altar-rails 
 
 C 2 
 
2O Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 O'er which He hangs, pierced through with nails r 
 
 Who for our sins did die. 
 Oh ! why is woman doomed to bear 
 The love, or lust, she cannot share ; 
 
 And hear from alien lips the sighs 
 She fain herself would waken ne'er, 
 
 Save within kindred hearts and eyes ? 
 Never by word, nor glance, nor e'en 
 
 That barren courtesy we give 
 
 Unto well nigh all things that live, 
 Did his detested rival glean 
 
 That I another's homage should 
 
 Not greet, as evil is by good. 
 But, had my heart been free as air, 
 
 Fickle as wind, as quick to take 
 
 Impression as some limpid lake 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 21 
 
 That every wanton breath can stir, 
 
 How had it ruffled been by one 
 Who wore the livery of the brood 
 By whom, with hands in blood imbrued, 
 
 Thrice had my country been undone ? 
 But I, nor free, nor false, nor light, 
 
 Bound both to Poland, and to him 
 Who yearned for Poland's wrongs to fight, 
 
 Had rather torn been limb from limb, 
 Than share with such love's last delight ! 
 I answered softly, not in scorn ; 
 
 For in what guise soe'er it come, 
 Because of gentle longings born, 
 
 Love should leave indignation dumb. 
 But he was, like his shifty race, 
 Disloyal, cunning, vengeful, base, 
 
22 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 And when he heard the lips of fate, 
 
 Love in him straightway turned to hate, 
 Even before my face ! 
 He menaced me with vengeance dire. 
 He knew my lover, brother, sire, 
 
 All rebels to the core. 
 And in the rush of lustful ire, 
 
 By his schismatic saints he swore, 
 That ruin, exile, death, should fall 
 "\Yith speedy stroke upon them all, 
 Unless I fed his foul desire. 
 I knew it was no idle boast ; 
 
 He had the power to fetter, slay, 
 Abetted by a servile host, 
 
 Perjured, suborned by bribes to say 
 Whatever falsehood pleased him most. 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 23 
 
 Yet then I bridled not my scorn, 
 But poured upon his dastard head 
 All that by woman can be said, 
 When she confronts, before her eyes, 
 Creature created to despise, 
 
 And, since of manlier weapons shorn, 
 
 Can only wish him dead. 
 
 " Beware ! " he croaked, with passion hoarse, 
 " Within your patriot arms shall lie, 
 Repelled or \velcomed, none but I ; 
 And what you now to love deny, 
 
 You yet shall yield to fear or force." 
 
 With scorn yet fiercer than at first 
 
 I flashed, and bade him work his worst. 
 
 " Before to-morrow's sun hath set," 
 
 He answered, " I shall pay the debt 
 
24 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 Of vengeance, never baffled yet. 
 Think not to foil me or to fly ! 
 
 I ever do the thing I would." 
 Then laughing loud, he went ; and I 
 
 Hated the ground where late he stood. 
 
 " ' The Night lay encamped in the summer sky, 
 And the burning stars kept watch ; 
 
 All were asleep upon earth save I, 
 
 Who had waited the hour and lifted the latch, 
 
 And crept out noiselessly. 
 
 The air was as silent as love or death, 
 
 Except for the beat of my quickened breath, 
 
 And once the lonely belated wail 
 
 Of an answered nightingale. 
 
 I dared not quicken my steps, for fear 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 25 
 
 The silence should listening be, and hear. 
 
 Slowly, stealthily, foot by foot. 
 
 Girding my garments tightly round, 
 
 Lest they should touch and tell the ground, 
 
 I threaded the laurel-walk and passed 
 
 On to the latchet-gate, and put 
 
 My hand on the creaking key, aghast 
 
 Lest the first stage of flight should prove the last. 
 
 Through ! and out in the meadows beyond, 
 With the cooling grass -dews round my feet, 
 
 Which would tell the tale of my journey fond, 
 But too late to hinder its purpose sweet ; 
 
 Over the narrow and swaying planks 
 That span the neck of the marish pool 
 
 Where the tall spear-lilies close their ranks, 
 And the water-hens nestle safe and cool. 
 
26 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 Then into the gloomy, darksome wood 
 Where the trunks seemed ghosts, and the big 
 boughs stood 
 
 As though they would block my way. 
 Woman's love is stronger than woman's fright, 
 And though dogged by dread, yet I faced that night 
 
 What I ne'er had faced by day. 
 
 the blessed break, and the blank without, 
 From each grinning bole and each staring leaf ? 
 
 1 clutched my temples, and gave a shout ; 
 
 It was mad, but it brought relief. 
 And then with a saner fear I stopped 
 
 To know if my foolish cry was heard. 
 But, like to a stream where a stone is dropped, 
 
 The silence was only a moment stirred, 
 
 And stillness closed over the hazard word. 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 27 
 
 " ' I was there ! in the garden where first I lent 
 
 My ear to the trembling music of love, 
 And my soul succumbed to its blandishment. 
 I was there ! I could smell the syringa's scent 
 
 And the lilac plumes that loomed dark above r 
 But, like to the heart that keeps alway 
 True to its friends, when friends betray, 
 
 Was lending the night that hid from view 
 
 Its delicate tufts and tender hue, 
 Odours sweeter than e'en by clay. 
 The laburnum tassels brushed my cheek, 
 
 And the tangled clematis clutched my hair ; 
 But I hurried along ; though my limbs were weak r 
 
 I was strengthened by despair. 
 A moment more, and I should be 
 
 Hard by the window where he slept. 
 
:28 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 How should I wake him ? how should flee, 
 
 If another o'erheard my voice ? I crept 
 Softly, silently, over the sward. 
 The walls were dark, and the windows barred, 
 
 All saving Yes, 'twas he ! 'twas he ! 
 Leaning out of his casement, lowly 
 Singing a love-song, sweetly, slowly, 
 
 That he first had sung to me. 
 
 He saw me not. He was gazing free 
 Across the dark, mysterious air, 
 
 At the shining stars, at the solemn sky, 
 At the unattainable far and fair, 
 The infinite something around, above, 
 
 With which, when alone, we identify 
 The finite thing we love. 
 I stood, and listened, and drank each note 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 29. 
 
 Of love that came from the yearning throat, 
 As it rose, as it fell, as it floated and died ; 
 
 And then with that courage that oft will spring 
 When we have not time to think, 
 
 And impulse whispers the blessed thing 
 From which resolve would shrink, 
 
 I with the song replied. 
 
 " * One instant, and the echoed song, 
 The night, the dark, the heavens bare, 
 And all that was of far and fair, 
 
 And all that was of sweet and strong, 
 
 Seemed gathered into one embrace, 
 
 And showered their magic on my face. 
 
 His arms were round me, and his breath 
 
 As close to mine as life to death. 
 
30 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 He murmured things I could not hear, 
 For I was deaf with bliss and fear. 
 Dumb, too ; in vain I strove to speak ; 
 I could but lean on breast and cheek, 
 And prove my passion wildly weak. 
 
 He drew me in. I still was dumb, 
 
 Panting for words that would not come, 
 But only tears instead, and sobs, 
 And broken syllables, and throbs, 
 With which hearts beat, whom rapture robs 
 
 Of all save love's delirium. 
 
 " Why hast thou come ? " I heard him say. 
 
 " There is no hour of night or day, 
 The coming of thy worshipped feet 
 Would not make richer or more sweet. 
 
 O come ! come ! come ! Yes, come alway ! 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 3 1 
 
 Nay, never come, love ! rather, stay ! 
 I must or miss you, or not meet ; 
 Absence is long, and presence fleet 
 
 And I am dead, when thou away ! 
 But why to-night, and here ? " I saw 
 Love's brightness overcast by awe ; 
 And terror in his face o'ercame 
 The terror in my weakened frame ; 
 Till listening to his voice, I caught 
 Contagion from his steadier thought, 
 And found at length the words I sought. 
 With rapid lips I told him all, 
 What had befallen might befall 
 
 The hateful lust, the lustful hate, 
 The threats of one who, well he knew, 
 If false in love, in wrath was true, 
 
32 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 And our impending fate. 
 " 'Twas this alone I came to tell, 
 And, Leszko ! now 'tis told, farewell ! " 
 I murmured with a faltering tongue. 
 Round me his arms he tightly flung, 
 And " Never ! " cried. " Thy faith shall foil 
 The base assassins of our soil. 
 By the harmonious orbs that shine, 
 To-night, within that dome divine, 
 What thou hast promised me, must be mine I 
 Before to-morrow's sun can sink, 
 
 May deeds be done I would not name, 
 And vengeance wreaked I dare not think. 
 
 If thus you went, 'twere vain you came! 
 To-night is ours, and, seized, will be 
 Ours, ours, through all eternity. 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 33 
 
 The dawn shall find us kneeling where 
 
 Passion is purified by prayer ; 
 
 And hands of patriot priest shall bless 
 
 And bind our premature caress. 
 
 If we are parted then, we part, 
 
 One, one in body, breast, and heart. 
 
 Hate, lust, and tyranny, in vain 
 
 Will strive to snap the cherished chain 
 
 That we around ourselves have bound. 
 
 Vanda ! my love ! my wife ! my more ! 
 If more be in love's language found, 
 
 Let them not baulk the troth we swore ! 
 Wed me with bonds not fiends can sever, 
 And be thou mine if once for ever ! " 
 
 -- % -* -- -55- -5'c 
 
 The winds of the morn began to stir, 
 
34 Leszko the Bastard. 
 
 And the stars began to pale ; 
 We could feel the chill of the moving air, 
 
 And the lifting of the veil 
 That covers the face of the shrinking night, 
 Its dreams, its dangers, its delight. 
 We started up. We listened, heard 
 The pipe of an awaking bird ; 
 Another then another still- 
 Louder and longer, and more shrill, 
 Till every copse began to fill 
 With music piercing bitter, fell, 
 The discord of our forced farewell. 
 We clung one moment, panted, kissed, 
 Then bravely rending us, he cried 
 " Back through the curling morning mist, 
 
 Vanda ! my love ! my life ! my bride ! 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 35 
 
 A few brief hours, and side by side 
 Before Heaven's altar we shall stand, 
 As now in heart, then one in hand, 
 Then be the future blest or curst 
 Let Poland's tyrants wreak their worst ! 
 One one more kiss ! " 
 
 " ' We leaned, to give 
 The richest of all boons that live, 
 But paused, half given ! . . . We each had 
 
 heard 
 
 A sound that was no waking bird, 
 Nor stealthy footfall of the night, 
 Scudding the unseen tracks of flight. 
 The noise of human voices broke 
 Upon our ears ; the words they spoke 
 
 Came nearer and more near. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 We clung in silence ; 'twas too late 
 To more than bide the feet of fate, 
 
 And face them without fear. 
 Loudest among them I could trace 
 
 The voice I hated most on earth ; 
 Another moment, and his face, 
 
 Lit with vindictiveness and mirth, 
 Was gazing on our checked embrace. 
 
 His myrmidons were at his heel : 
 
 I did not shrink, I did not reel, 
 
 But closer clung, to make him feel 
 I loathed him and his alien race. 
 I know no more. Unarmed we stood, 
 
 I heard the clank of ordered steel, 
 Then suddenly a blinding hood 
 Over my head was flung, and I, 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 37 
 
 Powerless to struggle, see, or cry, 
 
 Felt myself wrenched from arms that fain 
 Had fenced my freedom, but in vain, 
 And, doubtful did he live or die, 
 Borne through the chilly morning air, 
 Bound, stifled, cooped with dumb despair ! ' 
 
 " She paused, and strove for breath, as 
 though 
 
 The mere remembrance of that hour, 
 Though fled and faded long ago, 
 
 Retained the never-dying power 
 To choke and stifle her again, 
 And leave her dumb and dark, as then. 
 But mute no less I sate ; and she 
 The horror in my stare could see, 
 
38 Leszko the Bastard. 
 
 The speechless, open-mouthed suspense, 
 That kept me gazing there, to know 
 If I had heard the worst from woe, 
 Or if I must prepare my sense 
 For outrage deeper, more intense, 
 And from extremity of wrong 
 Become invulnerably strong. 
 ' O no ! ' she cried, for swift she guessed 
 The hell of anguish in my breast ; 
 ' O no ! not that I My boy ! thou art 
 
 The child of love and not of hate, 
 
 Memento of my only mate ! 
 The birth of heart convulsed on heart 
 
 With rapture pure and passionate ! 
 Though never more upon my breast 
 His breast did beat, his head did rest ; 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 39 
 
 Though I no more beheld his eye 
 Beaming above me like the sky 
 When all is bright and all is high, 
 
 And by which gazed on, one is blest ; 
 
 Though ne'er again his touch, his breath, 
 Was blent with mine, to make me feel 
 
 That something betwixt life and death, 
 When the converging senses reel, 
 
 And, through devotedness divine, 
 Joy knows not what it suffereth ; 
 
 No other hand has soiled the shrine ; 
 
 And, Leszko lost ! though lost, yet mine, 
 
 My senses, as my soul, kept thine ! ' 
 
 " She saw the shadow quit my brow ; 
 But, as it crept away, the light 
 
40 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 Seemed to desert her temples now. 
 
 The hand she had imprisoned tight 
 In hers, while travelling wildly back 
 To passion's bourne o'er sorrow's track, 
 She loosed, and half let go. ' Hast heard, 
 Hast drunk, hast understood, each word/ 
 Slowly she asked, ' my lips have said ? 
 Ours was no sanctioned marriage-bed. 
 No priestly blessing, altar's rite, 
 Confirmed the nuptials of that night. 
 
 Leszko ! thou art ' 
 
 " ; Twas not her tongue 
 That paused upon the bitter word, 
 But that before the name I heard 
 I shrink not from, my arms I flung 
 Around her sainted neck and showered 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 41 
 
 The love with which my soul was stirred. 
 I kissed her knees, her hands devoured, 
 
 I hushed her mouth, I sealed her eyes, 
 
 With kisses blent with broken cries, 
 
 Such as from baffled lips arise 
 When bursting hearts are overpowered 
 
 With sense of sublime sacrifice. 
 * Mother ! ' I cried, ' I'd sooner be 
 The child of love, and him, and thee, 
 Than bear or boast the tightest ties 
 Altars can knit or priests devise ! 
 If love, faith, country cannot bind 
 
 Two souls through love already blent, 
 Where among mortals shall we find 
 
 Solemnity or Sacrament ? 
 And were aught wanting to complete 
 
42 Leszko the Bastard. 
 
 In face of God's just judgment-seat, 
 
 Thy snapped-off love and life, 
 The tyrant's outrage, years of wrong, 
 Have weaved thee wedlock doubly strong, 
 
 And made thee more than wife ! ' 
 
 " She smoothed my hair, caressed my brow ; 
 
 Consoling tears coursed down her cheek, 
 Furrowed by sorrow's barren plough : 
 
 She stroked my hand, she strove to speak : 
 1 Yes, Leszko ! Holier bond was ne'er 
 Sanctioned by heaven or sealed by prayer. 
 Let others deem that formal vows 
 Breathed between kneeling spouse and spouse, 
 Can sanctify a link where each 
 Is but the slave of ordered speech ; 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 43 
 
 Where vanity, ambition, greed, 
 Are the base instincts that precede 
 
 The purest of the passions, sent 
 Life's desolate low steps to lead 
 
 Up to the star-thronged firmament ; 
 Let others fancy, if they will, 
 
 That pomp, and compliment, and smile, 
 
 Are sacramental bonds, though guile 
 And calculating coldness fill 
 
 The hollows of the heart the while ; 
 Let those, too, scorn me who have knelt 
 
 In fancied faithfulness, and sworn 
 The eternal troth they thought they felt, 
 
 But, soon as they were left to mourn 
 One to whose flesh their flesh they vowed 
 Not more in marriage-sheet than shroud, 
 
44 Leszko tlie Bastard. 
 
 After a few short trappings worn 
 To silence the censorious crowd, 
 
 Have let their facile feelings melt 
 Unto some second fancy, nursed 
 In the same lap where burned the first ! 
 Let them ! Nor pomp nor pandars gave 
 
 Me unto him ! 'Twas love alone 
 Anointed us ; and not the grave, 
 Not life, not death, shall e'er deprave 
 
 The body that remains his own. 
 Not mine a fault for which to crave 
 
 By Heaven or mortal to be shriven. 
 If I a suppliant need to be 
 To any, 'tis, my boy, to thee ! 
 
 And I by thee am all forgiven ! 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 45 
 
 " ' Yet yet that night of shining joy 
 Its shadow flings athwart thy life ; 
 I am not, I can ne'er be wife, 
 
 And thou art no one's son, our boy ! 
 
 His name I gave thee, and despite 
 
 Their jugglery of wrong and right, 
 
 It shall thou bear, whatever betide. 
 
 But who can give thee aught beside ? 
 
 Bastard thou art ! and thou canst claim, 
 
 It boots not what thy blood, thy fame, 
 
 Thy father's features, manly age, 
 
 Only a bastard's heritage. 
 
 But, Leszko ! who would care to boast 
 
 All that the rightful covet most ; 
 
 Who, who would wish to clutch and hold 
 
 Honour, or rank, or lands, or gold, 
 
46 Leszko the Bastard. 
 
 When lands, and gold, and rank, but be 
 A brighter badge of slavery ? 
 They who have nothing may excuse 
 
 Submission to the tyrant's beck ; 
 Too bare and beggared to refuse 
 
 Unsavoury morsel from the hand 
 That plants the heel upon the neck 
 
 Of their assassinated land. 
 But they who yet have aught to lose, 
 Base must they be if they can use 
 What still is left to them, to deck 
 The mourning of their country's wreck. 
 Be sure thy sire doth not retain 
 What would but aggravate his pain. 
 Of me, of love, when dispossessed, 
 How would he care to keep the rest ? 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 47 
 
 Robbed of my arms, his arms would find 
 But emptiness in all behind, 
 Vacuous air and moaning wind. 
 Who tore me from him, must have torn 
 With it long since the worldly dregs 
 Easy resigned by him who begs 
 That death at least to him be kind, 
 And bans the day that he was born ! 
 
 " ' Nay, ask not if he lives. I know 
 Nothing, since that cold dawn of woe. 
 Once more I had to hear, and bear, 
 The vengeful menace, lustful prayer, 
 Of one who sued, but would not spare. 
 He threatened he would blazen wide 
 That which he dared to call my shame. 
 
48 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 Guess how I answered ! I defied, 
 Exulted, and with patriot pride 
 
 Told him that I myself to fame 
 Would trumpet forth the deed that I 
 Had done to foil the treachery 
 
 Already hatching, and by whom ! 
 He cursed me. That was his reply. 
 But mine, alas ! had sealed my doom. 
 
 " ' 'Twas over, quick. I saw no more 
 Familiar face, or roof, or floor, 
 Or anything I knew before. 
 My eyes were bandaged, limbs were bound, 
 As through rough distance on we wound, 
 Aware but of the unseen ground 
 We traversed ever, day and night. 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 49 
 
 At length they gave me back my sight ; 
 And lo ! there stretched before, around, 
 The desert steppe, inhuman, bare, 
 That answered me with stare for stare. 
 I gazed around me for some face, 
 
 Some answering look, some kindred guise, 
 
 Some woe that I might recognize 
 Even in this desert place. 
 But none of all I saw, I knew; 
 And never one among them threw 
 
 A pitying glance on me. 
 So desolate it seemed, I should 
 Have thankful been if there had stood 
 
 Before me even he 
 \Yho thuswise had my ruin wrought. 
 I vow to you, his face I sought, 
 
5O Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 Among the convoy, early, late. 
 Xo face, no fiend, my exiled fate 
 
 Could now or better make or worse : 
 And it to me relief had brought 
 Could I have seen him, but to hate, 
 
 And greeted, but to curse ! 
 
 ** ' A mute and melancholy band, 
 
 For days and weeks we journeyed on. 
 
 Across a bare and level land, 
 
 On which the fierce sun ever shone, 
 
 But whence all life and growth were gone, 
 
 Utterly, as from salt-steeped strand. 
 
 Dawn after dawn, the steppe stretched round 
 
 It seemed to have no halt, no end, 
 Centre, circumference, nor bound, 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 5 1 
 
 No sight, no shade, no scent, no sound ; 
 But ever we appeared to wend 
 Into eternal exile, doomed 
 
 To make the endless track we trod, 
 
 Now over sand, now scanty sod, 
 \Yhere nought save blight and canker bloomed. 
 Though on we gasped, no goal was gained ; 
 Further we went, further remained, 
 
 As when thought struggles after God : 
 Save that, instead, we seemed to go 
 Towards infinity of woe. 
 Many we w r ere, but each alone. 
 
 We durst not with each other speak, 
 And but exchanged a tear or groan. 
 
 The strong might not assist the weak, 
 And to be child or woman gave 
 
 E 2 
 
52 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 No privilege or power, save 
 To suffer more and be more brave. 
 So wretched were we, we could bless 
 A lighter load of wretchedness ; 
 And when at last the cruel sun 
 Began to pity us, and leave 
 In sleep our pain a short reprieve, 
 We almost felt our griefs were done. 
 We knew not they had scarce begun. 
 Into another land we passed, 
 Drearier and deader than the last, 
 That knows no future and no past, 
 But only one fixed present ! land 
 
 Where nothing waxeth more or less, 
 Nothing is born and nothing dies, 
 And where, 'neath never-changing skies, 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 53 
 
 E'en frozen time itself doth stand 
 
 Immutable and motionless ! 
 A land of snow and snow-fed wind, 
 Which freeze the blood, congeal the mind, 
 And harden man against mankind : 
 Region of death that is not dead, 
 But ever on its icy bed 
 Lies dying, and must ever lie, 
 Forbid to live, forbid to die ! 
 
 " ' And, as its doom, such too seemed mine, 
 The doom of deathlessness in death. 
 
 In vain I used to pray and pine 
 
 The greedy cold would suck my breath, 
 
 And leave my empty husk to bleach 
 On the untrodden waste of white, 
 
54 Lcszko the 23astard. 
 
 And draw the prowling jackal's screech, 
 Or give the wolf one foul delight. 
 
 " ' One night, as, prostrate in despair 
 At each unanswered tear and prayer, 
 I blasphemed God, and wildly sware 
 That if at least He would not give 
 Me death, I would no longer live, 
 But would myself the torture end, 
 That had nor change, nor hope, nor friend, 
 Sudden I started, gave a cry ; 
 
 I seemed as changed to flesh from stone : 
 Oh ! joy ! I was no more alone. 
 And then for worlds I would not die ! 
 'Twas thou ! 'twas thou ! my babe ! my boy ! 
 In joylessness my more than joy ! 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 55 
 
 My more than heaven 'mid more than 
 
 hell ! 
 
 Weeping, upon my knees I fell, 
 And prayed forgiveness for my sin. 
 What now to me or cold or heat, 
 
 My shivering head, my burning feet, 
 Hunger or ache ? I held within 
 
 The memory of that midnight sweet. 
 I had no thought for things without : 
 Sensation, suffering, struggle, doubt, 
 Each sense wherewith we feel, hear, see, 
 Was concentrated inwardly 
 My aim was how to feed the root 
 That in the silence 'gan to shoot, 
 And pulsed with promise of the fruit. 
 Sometimes, in fresh access of woe, 
 
56 Lcszko tlic Bastard, 
 
 Hope veered, and longed that thou and I 
 Lay underneath the snug, warm snow, 
 Together, and with none to know ; 
 
 But swung back ever, true and high, 
 From desperation's gusty strife, 
 Pointing from love and set towards life ! 
 
 <l ' You lived !'.,.' O mother ! ' here I cried, 
 * Tell me no more ! I cannot bear 
 
 The tale of love, and grief, and pride. 
 Is't not enough that now we share 
 
 Pride, love, and exile, side by side ? 
 
 And, let what will of wrong betide-. 
 
 No wrong my youth, at least, shall tear, 
 From your soft hand and silver}- hair ! ' 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 57 
 
 " ' What, Leszko ! Leszko's son ! ' she said, 
 Her voice was grave, her tears were fled : 
 1 Think you I told this tale of woe, 
 To stir your love for me, I know, 
 Will hold you living", haunt you dead ? 
 Not quit my side, luxurious boy ! 
 Share anguish that is almost joy, 
 To shrink from pain without alloy ! 
 ]>y all my hopes of husband fled, 
 My interrupted marriage-bed, 
 I charge you, bid you, not to cling, 
 To me. to love, to anything ! 
 Not leave me ! What is this I hear ? 
 The mawkish kiss, the vapid tear, 
 Not flashing eye and springing spear ! ' 
 She pushed me off. ' It cannot be 
 
Lcszko llic Bastard. 
 
 His patriot seed and mine I see. 
 
 Thou art some channeling" ! Go, then, ^o ! 
 
 o o o 
 
 And hunt the lynx across the snow, 
 And when the blue-eyed scyllas blow, 
 
 Gather thereof a dainty bunch, 
 To woo some daughter of the foe, 
 
 While jackals and hyenas crunch 
 
 Thy country's flesh and bones, and bloom 
 No flowers, of all Spring used to know, 
 
 Save such as mourn o'er Poland's tomb ! 
 For Poland, I from him was torn, 
 
 For Poland, he from me ! But thou 
 
 Thou, thou forsooth, must cling on now, 
 
 I .ike infant that, from threatened hurt 
 
 Flies whimpering, to thy mother's skirt, 
 Dead unto duty as to scorn ! 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 59 
 
 Bastard, indeed, thoti doubly wert, 
 And both are shamed that thou wast 
 born ! ' 
 
 " I knelt me down ; towards the ground 
 
 I bowed my head in lowly guise. 
 
 I did not dare to raise my eyes, 
 But when at last my voice I found, 
 ' Mother ! ' I cried, ' I am not base, 
 
 Nor bastard, and his blood is mine ; 
 But gazing on thy holy face, 
 
 I all forgot a woe, a wrong, 
 Sadder, more sacred, e'en than thine. 
 
 But now thy strength hath made me strong, 
 And in my features thou shalt trace, 
 
 And in my soul, that I belong 
 
6o Leszko the Bastard. 
 
 Unto a noble name and race/ 
 I stood up straight. There was no sign 
 Of melting in my voice or gaze. 
 * \Yhen shall I go ? ' I said, ' The ways 
 
 Are not more ready stretched than I 
 
 To start at once, to run, to fly, 
 Whither thy sharp reproaches point 
 Mother, farewell ! In every joint 
 I feel the blood of Poland stir. 
 She is my mother ! I for her 
 
 Can lonely live, will lonely die.* 
 
 " ' Kneel then once more ! ' she said. I knelt, 
 But this time with unbending brow. 
 
 Her face fawned towards me, and I felt 
 Her lips upon me, tender now. 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 61 
 
 She took the cross from off her breast, 
 Passed its cord softly o'er my head : 
 ( I have no sv/ord to give,' she said, 
 ' But you will find one 'mong the dead 
 
 That now lie thick though baffled, blest - 
 
 Among the forests where, once more, 
 Poland renews the hopeless strife, 
 
 And liberates with lavish gore, 
 Awhile, the fever of its life. 
 
 Listen ! There shortly start from hence 
 Two fresh battalions of the foe, 
 For Poland bound. They doubtless go 
 
 To aid their kindred's violence. 
 
 You must march with them o'er the snow. 
 
 Nay, start not ! must their colours wear, 
 
 Aye, boy ! must false allegiance swear 
 
62 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 To their detested Pontiff-Czar ! 
 
 Such perjuries, I tell thee, are 
 
 Not heard at Heaven's just judgment-bar. 
 
 And if thy lips abhor the lie, 
 
 Poland absolves thee so do I ! ' 
 
 " The hour had come, and face to face 
 
 We stood, my mother, there, and I. 
 We did not fondle nor embrace ; 
 
 She did not weep, I did not sigh. 
 I wore the trappings of the race 
 
 That battens upon Poland's heart ; 
 So, well I knew that uncaressed, 
 Unfolded to her craving breast, 
 
 I from her must depart. 
 
 1 Have you the cross ? ' she asked. I laid 
 
A Talc of Polish Grief. 
 
 My hand where 'gainst my heart it lay, 
 But did not speak. ' Both night and day, 
 
 Brood on it, as a constant maid 
 
 Broods on the face that cannot fade, 
 When he who loves her is away ! 
 It was the one dumb thing on earth 
 
 That spoke to me ; the only one, 
 Dead, that was eloquent of birth ; 
 
 So have I given it thee, my son ! 
 I have no gift of his, no toy, 
 
 No trinket, trifle, leaf, nor flower, 
 Naught to remind me of my joy. 
 
 But it was on my breast that hour, 
 That night, when it, and it alone, 
 Was 'twixt his bosom and my own. 
 Go, now ! And I will nightly pray 
 
64 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 The ""Queen of Poland, we may meet, 
 \Yhen bitter has been turned to sweet, 
 
 And earthly dark to heavenly day ! ' 
 
 I bent. She raised her hands to bless ; 
 
 And then I went without caress, 
 
 And left her to her loneliness. 
 
 " Why tell the rest ? Too well you know, 
 Ah ! you, free child of Freedom's shore, 
 
 That spurred our hopes, but lent no blow 
 In aid of all our wasted gore, 
 How Poland, maddened, rose once more, 
 
 And blindly struck at friend and foe. 
 
 Why should I tell the tale, too long ! 
 
 * The Virgin is regarded by the Poles as Queen of Poland, in the same 
 way as, in 1529, Christ was elected and proclaimed, by the Great (.'onncil, 
 Xing of Florence. 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 65 
 
 Of the weak writhing 'gainst the strong, 
 Pricked by reiterated wrong ? 
 The orphaned pillows, rifled roofs, 
 The sudden rush of trampling hoofs, 
 
 The reeking village, blazing town ; 
 The perjured charge, the traitor's mesh, 
 The virgin's lacerated flesh ; 
 The wail of childhood, helpless fair, 
 Frenzy itself had stepped to spare ; 
 
 Priests at the altar stricken down, 
 Mingling their blood with that of Christ, 
 While sacrificing, sacrificed ; 
 Chaste spouses of the cloister, weaned 
 From earth, and from Earth's passions screened. 
 Shrieking beneath the clutch of fiend, 
 And outraged, less from lust than hate, 
 
66 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 In refuges inviolate. 
 
 Enough ! Had Hell broke loose, and sent 
 
 Its demons forth, on man to vent 
 
 The tortures God's maligners feign 
 
 Heaven vents on them, they would in vain 
 
 Have striven to paragon the pain 
 
 Poland's oppressors knew to wreak 
 
 Upon the sensitive and weak, 
 
 When we, the strong, their strength defied, 
 
 And Freedom, foiling despots, died. 
 
 " I was too late. 'Twas nearly o'er ; 
 But straight I sloughed the garb I wore, 
 And joined one last determined band, 
 
 Who to the border forests clung 
 That sever from the Tartar's hand 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 67 
 
 That share of our partitioned land 
 Which owns a rule more just and bland, 
 
 Keeping at least its creed and tongue. 
 We did not think with fate to cope ; 
 No ! vengeance was our only hope, 
 
 And vengeance to me came. 
 We were pursued by one who gave 
 No mercy or to faint or brave : 
 
 I heard, and knew his name. 
 'Twas he, whose lust had torn apart 
 For ever loving heart from heart, 
 
 As far as hatred can. 
 We lay in ambush ; they were caught, 
 And could not fly, so mercy sought. 
 
 We slew them, to a man ! 
 He fell to me ! One thrust I made, 
 
68 Leszko the Bastard. 
 
 And at my feet I saw him laid : 
 
 I sucked the blood from off my blade : 
 
 Christ ! it was sweet ! aye, sweeter far 
 Than the smile of home, than the kiss of maid r 
 
 Or the glow of the evening star ! 
 
 *' It was the last blow struck. We fled 
 
 Across the frontier, each as best 
 A gap could gain, and left the dead 
 
 To stock the unclean raven's nest. 
 
 Exile once more, though all the earth 
 Henceforth lay open to my tread, 
 
 All save the one that gave me birth, 
 I saw no goal except the one 
 
 Where, sitting mute in deepest dearth, 
 The mother waited for the son. 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 69 
 
 But how ? I donned the pedlar's pack, 
 And started on the trackless track, 
 
 Day after day, league after league, 
 
 Fatigue slow-linked with slow fatigue, 
 But ever getting nearer back 
 Unto the larch-log fire where she 
 Sat patiently, awaiting me. 
 And there was yet another sight 
 
 Behind, to spur my flagging tread : 
 The foe, the fiend, I felled in fight, 
 
 And gloated over, dead ! 
 
 Could I have borne his hated head, 
 And laid it at my mother's feet ! 
 
 The very thought fresh vigour gave, 
 And made my final footsteps fleet. 
 
 I raved. You deem that still I rave. 
 
jo Leszko the Bastard. 
 
 What think you that they found ? Her grave. 
 
 " Back, back across the cruel waste, 
 
 Her tomb behind, my life before ; 
 An ebbing wave that raced and raced, 
 
 But ne'er could hope to find a shore, 
 Not e'en a rock 'gainst which to break : 
 A vista of unending ache, 
 Trod and endured for no one's sake I 
 
 Rather than live without some end, 
 Such misery fresh woe will make, 
 
 And woo misfortune for a friend. 
 And I, since it was vain to hope 
 
 That I could find, where'er I ran, 
 
 Solace or happiness, began 
 For further wretchedness to grope. 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 7 1 
 
 Now other object had I none, 
 From rise of day to set of sun, 
 
 Except to seek my sire ; 
 Though well I knew I should not find, 
 Or finding, curse the fate unkind 
 
 That baulked not my desire. 
 And fate was ruthless to the last. 
 Five years of bootless search had passed, 
 
 And still I sought. But when on fire, 
 Her roofs delirious Paris saw, 
 I found him stretched on sordid straw. 
 He had not fought for crowd or law : 
 Sooth, had he wished, he could not draw 
 A sword from scabbard now, nor lift 
 
 His body from its borrowed bed. 
 His brackish life was ebbing swift. 
 
72 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 He who had eaten beggar's bread, 
 And known each sad and sordid shift 
 
 That just sustains the exile's tread, 
 Needed no more the stranger's gift 
 
 I knelt me down beside his head, 
 And breathed her name into his ear. 
 There came no start, no word, no tear : 
 His brain was deaf; he did not know 
 The difference now 'twixt joy and woe, 
 ''Twixt love and hate, 'twixt friend and foe, 
 'Twixt me and any other ! Vain 
 My years of search and sought-for pain. 
 Yet not quite vain. Upon his breast 
 
 A silver locket hung ; and when 
 I stretched my hand to it, he pressed 
 
 'Gainst it his own, nor loosed again, 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 73 
 
 Until he passed away to rest. 
 
 I took it when his grasp grew cold, 
 
 And lo ! it was my mother's face ! 
 Not as I knew her, blanched and old, 
 
 But in the glow of youth and grace, 
 With eyes of heaven and hair of gold, 
 
 And all the passion of her race. 
 
 I wear it and its rusted chain. 
 
 I put her cross there in its place : 
 The iron cross ; yes, cross indeed ! 
 And iron, too ! the fitting meed 
 Of those who for wronged Poland bleed, 
 
 And ever bleed in vain ! 
 
 " Rise quick, ye winds ! Race swift, ye waves ! 
 And bear me where blue Danube rolls, 
 
74 Lcszko the Bastard. 
 
 Past Orsova's loud-foaming caves, 
 On 'twixt armed hosts of rival slaves, 
 
 To scatter among Euxine shoals. 
 Now, do you ask why hence I fly 
 
 To join the Moslem camp, and hurl 
 My poor weak life, foredoomed to die, 
 
 On those who Freedom's flag unfurl 
 
 For Christian boor and Sclavic churl ? 
 Out on the sacrilegious lie ! 
 Robbers, assassins, liars, slaves ! 
 Whose feet are fresh from outraged graves ! 
 Let those among you, dupes, or worse, 
 Sucklings of falsehood, or its nurse, 
 Believe that Russian arms can bear 
 To others aught except a share 
 In chains themselves consent to wear ! 
 
A Tale of Polish Grief. 75 
 
 Let them ! But I ! Did Tartar swords 
 Storm hell, and Turkish steel defend, 
 I would the infernal Cause befriend 
 
 Against the worse than demon hordes 
 
 Who to the damned would bring fresh curse, 
 And enter Hell, to make it worse ! " 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON : BRADBURY, AGNEW, CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFKIAKS. 
 
YC160673