2.42. KONGRESOWKA
Dich wird erziehn dereinst der Zar
Zur Sklaverei
Doch als ich dich, O Kind, gebar
War Polen frei.
Sleep, my little one, You cannot say
What makes you cry.
Sleep on. Despite the pain, some day
I'll tell you why.
Sleep on, dear Heart. Why such misery
At the triumph of our foes?
Your father died for you and for me
In a war of heroes.
Soon you'll be taught and enslaved in the ways
of Russian Tsardom.
Yet you were borne and delivered in the days
Of Poland's Freedom.^18In Great Britain, as in the United States, liberal opinion was outraged. The
November Rising in Poland triggered the first of many waves of Russophobia
which were to break over the Anglo-Saxon public on repeated occasions during
the century. A Literary Association of the Friends of Poland was launched in
Scotland by the poet, Thomas Campbell, and by Lord Dudley Stuart. In the
House of Commons, in July 1833, J. Cutler Fergusson MP, armed with infor-
mation supplied by the Hotel Lambert, introduced the most important of sev-
eral debates on the Polish situation. Lord Morpeth elucidated Poland's historic
role. The Nonconformist, Spurgeon, and the Jewish member, Goldsmith, both
paid tribute to Poland's tradition of religious toleration. Daniel O'Connell
denounced the Tsar as a 'scoundrel'. Thomas Attwood denounced the passivity
of the British government. The House unanimously passed a vote of censure on
Russia's conduct. But nothing more was done. Thomas Campbell revived his
poem, of which only one line is generally remembered: 'And Freedom shrieked
as Kosciuszko fell.'^19
Another bad poet called Antrobus, apologizing for the weakness of his 'poetic
effusions', composed a lengthy ode on The Wrongs of Poland, whose well-
meaning lines aptly recorded the inarticulate rage of Poland's many sympathizers:In sable weeds Britannia mourning stands
O'er fallen Sarmatia's bier; bathing with dew
Of truthful pity, the unfading wreaths
That thickly cluster round her trophied urn...
O land of heroes, could the Muse portray
A tithe of what thy children have endured,
Each face would wear the mourning of the heart;
All voices join in execration loud.
No pen can picture true thy mighty wrongs;
No tongue reveal the many springs of woe;