The Kansas herald of freedom., 1855-02-10
Niscsiiaaeoqs.


7DiScellaleoQS.
The Exile's Lament.
BY COUNT KAzINsKI, POLISH EXILE.
The exile is like hunted deer--driy-
en- from his fathers home, banished from
the watchful eye of his beloved mother,
exiled from the tender embrace of his
dear sister and brother, deprived of the
cheerful greeting of the well-known faces
of his friends. He wanders from city to
city, from town to town, and from village
to village, always alone, always uncared
for, in many instances suspected, but sell
dom meeting with the philanthropic hand
of a cosmopoli.e citizen. He is far more
unfortunate than the youth who has lost
both his father and his mother, sister and
brother, or other relatives. You may ask
the question, Why? Take the orphan.
Does he not tread upon the earth which
has seen him born? Does not the same
sweet air which first smiled in his baby
face, greet him in the morning? Does
he not daily meet the good -humored face
of a friend !? or the bewitching smiles of
a dear lady acquaintance? But he has
other consolation. In beautiful summer
morning, when nature awakes him, with
her golden sunbeams, he may, take walk
TO the silent cemetery-the city of eter-
nal peace. There is the grave of his ia
ther; there of his mother; here of sis
ter, or perhaps of his beloved wife -
Rose bushes, ,intermingled with evergreen,
adorn the white marble monument. He
reposes himself under the shadow of the
cypress tree, addresses a prayer to the
Most High for the benefit of his dear de-
parted and l am sure his heart will
beat with Joy, and consoled will he depart
to his daily toll. Is not this consolation ?
Regard the exile He knows that his
country suffers under the iron rule of
foreign despot He knows that almost
daily some of his friends are sacrificed ON
the altar of liberty. He knows that his
mother and relatives are weeping for
their lost son, husband, brother, or cous-
in. Heimagines that perhapssome mem
bers of his family are suffering i'll the cold
dungeons Of despotism. The consolation
of corresponding is interdicted by tyran-
nical laws. Whenever he greets broth
er exile in foreign land, he is sure to
meetmisery and suffering. Nature, with
all her beauty, refuses him a moment of
solace. Look Do you see yon prairie,
adorned with thousands of flowers of va
Iious colors +? The ears of the exile are
stopped; mysterious murmur enchants
his ear; he kneels on natures blooming
carpet, approaches his ear to the silver
surface of the water, and oh endless
misery, a foreign sound destroys the hap
py dream. Nol thousand times, no |!
the murmur of my native stream is sweet
er. Hank hark The melodious voice
of mocking- bird, concealed beyond the
leaves of the almond tree, sings his morn
ing song in praise of his Creator. At
tentive the exile listens to long forgotten
notes. But o, cruel deception !! o, too
fervent magination! 1t is not his ma
tive nightingale, perching her airy copse
in jessamine branches. o, my nightin-
gale thou knowest the suffering of my
iatherland thou knowest that enslaved
liberty does not admit the lofty notes of
triumphant freedom, and in long COM
plant of harmonious NOES thou sympa-
thizest with the heart of my oppressed
people. Wander and march, unhappy
exile the roses, lilies, and tulips bloom
not for thee. Their fragant perfume is
foreign, and mock thy delicate feelings.
Morally and physically fatigued, the ex-
lie fains on natures divan. Morpheus
soon closes his eyelids, and apparently to
mortal eyes he seems to slumber-yes,
he seems to slumber but his restless
spirit, his heat-oppressed brain, knows not
slumber. Foreign to him are nights re-
freshing hours. With the wings of time
he travels the waves of the mighty ocean;
passes with mysterious velocity through
the straits of England's potent Gibraltar; /;
mingles in brotherly love with the mild
Mediterranean, and, with Aurora's call,
finds himself in the Bosphorus of memo
rial antiquity.
A friendly welcome extends to him the
Danube, mourning over the victims whose
blood reddens its shores by the order of
the despot. In Poland's deserted cities
he meets cruel mothers,
clinging to their sons wives, struggling
with recruiting sergents maidens, beat
ing their breasts, and resting alook on low
ers, parting under tyrant's Uniform
| The exile's breast beats heavily. All his
nerves are in Commissions his body wan
ders from one side to the other; last
gasp escapes him his sleep of agony is
over. He opens his eyelids, closes them
again, brings his hands to his forehead,
stretches them from north to south, from
east to west, and at last exclainls ]
thank thee, 0 God lit is but dream.
Too soon his wandering senses are col
lected. and his dream-0h cold and
stern reality-exists. Hisfevered imagi.
nation is but feeble picture of crimes
which are perpetrated by the minions ol
| the Russian despot He starts with cleo
!, tric agility his eyes seem a pair of liv-
ing Goals; his hands burn like red hoi
iron he grasps with fury where he used
to find his sword !; to the East-the
earth selected by the Almighty to en-
tighten the children of clay, the birth
place of Christ, the beloved son of God;
! to the capital of the ancient Greek em.
pire. now the sea. of the descendants Of
Solilnan-are his steps directed Strange
contradiction Vile necessity The
Christian exile is forced TO join the Cres-
cent banner, in order to ayenge his down
trodden country.
j H Let every man look well to MS
habits. A reputation which it has taken