Sonnet

How long, O God, shall men be ridden down,

And trampled under by the last and least

Of men? The heart of Poland hath not ceased

To quiver, though her sacred blood doth drown

The fields; and out of every smouldering town

Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be increased,

Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East

Transgress his ample bound to some new crown:—

Cries to Thee, "Lord, how long shall these things be?

How long shall the icyhearted Muscovite

Oppress the region?" Us, O Just and Good,

Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three;

Us, who stand now, when we should aid the right—

A matter to be wept with tears of blood!