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Alfred Austin - Leszko The Bastard
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 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!—
  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 stopped 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,
  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
  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,
  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,
 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.
  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.
  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!
 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.
  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.
  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,
  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,
  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!
  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!``
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