Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, —
Oh! Heav'n! he cried, my bleeding country save! —
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave!
Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Rise, fellow men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name we wave the sword on high,
And swear for her to live! — with her to die!