HENCE come those shrieks so wild and shrill,

That cut, like blades of steel, the air,

Causing the creeping blood to chill

With the sharp cadence of despair?

Again they come, as if a heart

Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,

And every string had voice apart

To utter its peculiar woe.

Whence came they? from yon temple where

An altar, raised for private prayer,

Now forms the warrior's marble bed

Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.

The dim funereal tapers throw

A holy lustre o'er his brow,

And burnish with their rays of light

The mass of curls that gather bright

Above the haughty brow and eye

Of a young boy that's kneeling by.

What hand is that, whose icy press

Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,

But meets no answering caress?

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp?

It is the hand of her whose cry

Rang wildly, late, upon the air,

When the dead warrior met her eye

Outstretched upon the altar there.

With pallid lip and stony brow

She murmurs forth her anguish now.

But hark! the tramp of heavy feet

Is heard along the bloody street;

Nearer and nearer yet they come

With clanking arms and noiseless drum.

Now whispered curses, low and deep,

Around the holy temple creep;

The gate is burst; a ruffian band

Rush in and savagely demand,

With brutal voice and oath profane,

The startled boy for exile's chain.

The mother sprang with gesture wild,

And to her bosom clasped her child;

Then with pale cheek and flashing eye

Shouted with fearful energy,

"Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to tread

Too near the body of my dead;

Nor touch the living boy—I stand

Between him and your lawless band.

"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,

Tearing the pale boy from her side,

And in his ruffian grasp he bore

His victim to the temple door.

"One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one!

Will land or gold redeem my son?

Take heritage, take name, take all,

But leave him free from Russian thrall!

Take these!" and her white arms and hands

She stripped of rings and diamond bands,

And tore from braids of long black hair

The gems that gleamed like starlight there;

Her cross of blazing rubies last

Down at the Russian's feet she cast.

He stooped to seize the glittering store—

Upspringing from the marble floor,

The mother, with a cry of joy,

Snatched to her leaping heart the boy.

But no! the Russian's iron grasp

Again undid the mother's clasp.

Forward she fell, with one long cry

Of more than mortal agony.

But the brave child is roused at length,

And breaking from the Russian's hold,

He stands, a giant in the strength

Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.

Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,

So blue, and yet so bright,

Seems kindled from the eternal sky,

So brilliant is its light.

His curling lips and crimson cheeks

Foretell the thought before he speaks;

With a full voice of proud command

He turned upon the wondering band:

He drew aside his broidered vest,

And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,

The jeweled haft of poniard bright

Glittered a moment on the sight.

"Ha! start ye back! Fool! coward! knave!

Think ye my noble father's glaive

Would drink the life-blood of a slave?

The pearls that on the handle flame

Would blush to rubies in their shame;

The blade would quiver in thy breast,

Ashamed of such ignoble rest.

No! Thus I rend the tyrant's chain,

And fling him back a boy's disdain!"

A moment and the funeral light

Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright;

Another, and his young heart's blood

Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood.

Quick to his mother's side he sprang,

And on the air his clear voice rang:

"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!

The choice was death or slavery.

Up, mother, up! Look on thy son!

His freedom is forever won;

And now he waits one holy kiss

To bear his father home in bliss—

One last embrace, one blessing—one!

To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son.

What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel

My warm blood o'er my heart congeal?

Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!

What! silent still? Then art thou dead?