{"id":7324,"date":"2004-10-18T12:27:29","date_gmt":"2004-10-18T16:27:29","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/?p=7324"},"modified":"2020-03-26T11:15:22","modified_gmt":"2020-03-26T15:15:22","slug":"the-polish-boy","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/archives\/7324","title":{"rendered":"“The Polish Boy”"},"content":{"rendered":"

Poem from Independent Fifth Reader, written by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

<\/p>\n

We had a Sunday School entertainment, for which I recited “The Polish Boy,” receiving a standing ovation. -Sabbath Visitor, 1886<\/em><\/p>\n

     
\nA<\/span>ccording to her papers at the New York Public Library, Ann Sophia (Winterbotham) Stephens (1813 – 1886), was an author and associate editor of Ladies Companion<\/em>; she published over twenty-five historical romance and domestic novels. The engraving of Stephens is from Graham’s Magazine<\/em>, 1844. Born in Connecticut to Ann and John Winterbotham, she married Edward Stephens in 1831. It was in her husband’s Portland Magazine<\/em> that her poem, “The Polish Boy,” first appeared, with Ann listed as editor of the magazine. The poem is transcribed below as it appeared on pages 249 to 253 of the Independent Fifth Reader<\/em>. A copy of the Fifth Reader<\/em> can be found online HERE<\/a>. <\/p>\n

     
\nTHE POLISH BOY.<\/strong><\/p>\n

1. Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill,
\nThat cut like blades of steel, the air,
\nCausing the creeping blood to chill
\nWith the sharp cadence of despair?
\nAgain they come, as if a heart
\nWere cleft in twain by one quick blow,
\nTo utter its peculiar woe.<\/p>\n

2. Whence came they? from yon temple, where
\nAn altar, raised for private prayer,
\nNow forms the warrior’s marble bed,
\nWho Warsaw’s gallant army led,
\nThe dim funereal tapers throw
\nA holy luster o’er his brow,
\nAnd burnish with their rays of light
\nThe mass of curls that gather bright
\nAbove the haughty brow and eye
\nOf a young boy that’s kneeling by.<\/p>\n

3. What hand is that, whose icy press
\nClings to the dead with death’s own grasp,
\nBut meets no answering caress?
\nNo thrilling lingers seek its clasp:
\nIt is the hand of her whose cry
\nRang wildly late upon the air,
\nWhen the dead warrior met her eye,
\nOutstretched upon the altar there,<\/p>\n

4. With pallid lips and stony brow,
\nShe murmurs forth her anguish now.
\nBur hark! the tramp of heavy feet
\nis heard along the bloody street!
\nNearer and nearer yet they come,
\nWith clanking arms and noiseless drum.
\nNow whispered curses, low and deep,
\nAround the holy temple creep;\u2014
\nThe gate is burst! a ruffian band
\nRush in and savagely demand,
\nWith brutal voice and oath profane,
\nThe startled boy for exile’s chain!<\/p>\n

5. The mother sprang with gesture wild,
\nAnd to her bosom clasped her child;
\nThen, with pale cheek and flashing eye,
\nShouted, with fearful energy,
\n“Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread
\nToo near the body of my dead!
\nNor touch the living boy; I stand
\nBetween him and your lawless band!
\nTake me<\/em>, and bind these arms, these hands,
\nWith Russia’s heaviest iron bands,
\nAnd drag me to Siberia’s wild,
\nTo perish, if ‘t will save my child!”<\/p>\n

6. “Peace, woman, peace!” the leader cried,
\nTearing the pale boy from her side,
\nAnd in his ruffian grasp he bore
\nHis victim to the temple door.
\n“One moment!” shrieked the mother, “one!
\nWill land or gold redeem my son?
\nTake heritage, take name, take all,
\nBut leave him free from Russian thrall!
\nTake these!” and her white arms and hands
\nShe stripped of rings and diamond bands,
\nAnd tore from braids of long black hair
\nThe gems that gleamed like starlight there.
\nHer cries of blazing rubies, last
\nDown at the Russian’s feet she cast.<\/p>\n

7. He stooped to seize the glittering store;\u2014
\nUp springing from the marble floor
\nThe mother, with a cry of joy,
\nSnatched to her leaping heart the boy!
\nBut no! the Russian’s iron grasp
\nAgain undid the mother’s clasp.
\nForward she fell with one long cry
\nOf more than mortal agony.<\/p>\n

8. But the brave child is roused at length,
\nAnd, breaking from the Russian’s hold,
\nHe stands, a giant in the strength
\nOf his young spirit fierce and bold,
\nProudly he towers; his flashing eye
\nSo blue, and yet so bright,
\nSeems kindled from the eternal sky,
\nSo brilliant is its light.
\nHis curling lips and crimson cheeks
\nForetell the thought before he speaks.
\nWith a full voice of proud command
\nHe turns upon the wondering band:
\n“Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can!
\nThis hour has made the boy a man.
\nI knelt beside my slaughtered sire,
\nNor felt one throb of vengeful ire.
\nI wept upon his marble brow,
\nYes, wept! I was a child; but now<\/em>\u2014
\nMy noble mother on her knee
\nHas done the work of years for me!”<\/p>\n

9. He drew aside his broidered vest,
\nAnd there, like slumbering serpent’s crest,
\nThe jeweled haft of poniard bright
\nGlittered a moment on the sight.\u2014
\n“Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave!
\nThink ye my noble father’s glave
\nWould drink the life-blood of a slave?
\nThe pearls that on the handle flame
\nWould blush to rubies in their shame;
\nThe blade would quiver in thy breast,
\nAshamed of such ignoble rest.
\nNo! thus I rend the tyrant’s chain,
\nAnd fling him back a boy’s disdain!<\/em>”<\/p>\n

10. A moment, and the funeral light
\nFlushed on the jeweled weapon bright;
\nAnother, and his young heart’s blood
\nLeaped to the floor, a crimson flood!
\nQuick to his mother’s side he sprang,
\nAnd on the air his clear voice rang:
\n“Up, mother, up! I’m free! I’m free!
\nThe choice was death or slavery!
\nUp, mother, up! Look on thy son!
\nHis freedom is forever won!
\nAnd now he waits one holy kiss
\nTo bear his father home in bliss;
\nOne last embrace, one blessing\u2014one!
\nTo prove thou know’st, approv’st, thy son.
\nWhat! silent yet? Canst thou not feel
\nMy warm blood o’er thy heart congeal?
\nSpeak, mother, speak! lift up thy head?
\nWhat! Silent still? Then art thou dead!
\n–Great God! I thank thee! Mother, I
\nRejoice with thee\u2014and thus\u2014to die!:\u2014
\nOne long, deep breath, and his pale head
\nLay on his mother’s bosom\u2014dead!<\/p>\n

     
\n
\n“The Polish Boy”<\/strong> (PG), from Independent Fifth Reader<\/em>
\n     <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Poem by Ann S. Stephens<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":8034,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[631],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7324"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7324"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7324\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":13220,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7324\/revisions\/13220"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/8034"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7324"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7324"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7324"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}