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Translated by William Young
July, 1831
WHAT! are ye flying, conquerors of the world? | |
| Hath Fortune blundered before Leipsic’s walls? | |
| What, flying! whilst the bridge blown up and hurled | |
| In ruins back, to the hoarse torrent falls! | |
| Men, horses, arms, all wildly mingled, there | 5 |
| Are plunged; the Elster rolls encumbered by: | |
| But deaf it rolls to vow or tear or prayer: | |
| “Frenchman, give but a hand, and I am saved!” the cry. | |
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| “Naught but a hand? a plague on him who craves! | |
| Press on, press on! for whom should we delay?” | 10 |
| ’T is for a hero sinking in the waves; | |
| ’T is Poniatowski, wounded thrice to-day. | |
| Who cares? Fear bids them haste with savage speed; | |
| To stern, cold hearts for aid doth he apply: | |
| The waters part him from his faithful steed: | 15 |
| “Frenchman, give but a hand, and I am saved!” his cry. | |
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| He dies—not yet—he struggles—swims—once more | |
| The charger’s mane his clutching fingers feel. | |
| “What! to die drowned! whilst there upon the shore | |
| I hear the cannon, and I see the steel! | 20 |
| Help, comrades, help! you boasted I was brave! | |
| I loved you—this my blood should testify. | |
| Ah! ’t is for France some drops I still would save! | |
| Frenchman, give but a hand, and I am saved!” his cry. | |
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| There is no succor! and his failing hand | 25 |
| Lets go its guide: “Poland, adieu, adieu!” | |
| But lo! a dream descends at Heaven’s command, | |
| With brilliant image dawning on his view. | |
| “Ha! the White Eagle to the combat wakes; | |
| All soaked with Russian blood I see it fly: | 30 |
| Loud on mine ear a hymn of glory breaks: | |
| Frenchman, give but a hand, and I am saved!” his cry. | |
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| There is no succor! he is dead,—the foe | |
| Along the reedy shore their camp have made. | |
| That day is distant; but a voice of woe | 35 |
| 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 from heaven re-echoed to us here, | |
| “Frenchman, give but a hand, and I am saved!” the cry. | 40 |
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| ’T is Poland, ’t is her faithful sons’ lament: | |
| How oft our battles she hath helped to gain! | |
| She drowns herself in her own heart’s blood, spent | |
| With lavish flow, her honor to maintain. | |
| As then the Chief, whose mangled corse was found | 45 |
| In Elster’s waves,—he for our land did die,— | |
| Now calls a nation, o’er a gulf profound, | |
| “Frenchmen, give but a hand, and we are saved!” the cry. | |
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