of Mahomet, which the conqueror sent to the Pope with these words, "I came, I saw: God hath conquered." -SIR E. CUST. THE SIEGE OF VIENNA. How long, O Lord, shall vengeance sleep, How long Thy faithful servants weep, Where, where, of Thine Almighty arm, O God, While Tartar brands are drawn to steep See the black cloud on Austria lower, Behold the wild barbarians pour Sweep along the Danube's strand, And darkly-serried spears the light of day o'erpower! The banners of the East unite; All Asia girds her loins for fight: The Don's barbaric lords, Sarmatia's haughty hordes, Warriors from Thrace, and many a swarthy file Banded on Syria's plains or by the Nile. Mark the tide of blood that flows Austria's queen of cities falls. Vain are her lofty ramparts to elude Quiver and shake; hark to the thrilling cry The groans of death, the wild laments, Of wildered matrons, pressing to their breast All which they feared for most and loved the best! Thine everlasting hand Exalt, O Lord, that impious man may learn How frail their armor to withstand Thy power-the power of God supreme! Bind them in slavery's iron band, Let trophied columns by the Danube rise, If Destiny decree, If Fate's eternal leaves declare, That Germany shall bend the knee And Italy the Moslem yoke shall bear, And kiss the holy rod. Conquer-if such Thy will Conquer the Scythian, while he drains We yield Thee trembling homage still; ... For Thou alone art just, and wise, and pure. But shall I live to see the day When Tartar ploughs Germanic soil divide, And Arab herdsmen fearless stray, And watch their flocks along the Rhine, Where princely cities now o'erlook his tide? The Danube's towers no longer shine, For hostile flame has given them to decay: Shall devastation wider spread Where the proud ramparts of Vienna swell, And human footsteps cease to tread? Hark to the votive hymn resounding Where many a buried treasure lies; Their forces leagued for Christendom: And warlike Poles like thunderbolts descend, He stands upon the Esquiline, And lifts to heaven his holy arm, Like Moses, clothed in power divine, While faith and hope his strength sustain. Merciful God! has prayer no charm Thy rage to soothe, Thy love to gain? The pious king of Judah's line Beneath Thine anger lowly bended, And Thou didst give him added years; The Assyrian Nineveh shed tears Of humbled pride when death impended, When Heaven's vicegerent seeks Thy grace? Sacred fury fires my breast, And fills my laboring soul. Ye who hold the lance in rest, And gird you for the holy wars, On, on, like ocean waves to conquest roll, Rush to the combat, soldiers of the Cross! For the heathen shall perish, and songs of the free Ring through the heavens in jubilee! Why delay ye? Buckle on the sword and the targe, And charge, victorious champions, charge! He STANISLAUS PONIATOWSKI, came a warm friend of this young nobleman, and, when appointed British minister to the Court of Russia, persuaded Poniatowski to accompany him to St. Petersburg. Here the accomplished gallant won the favor of the licentious Grandduchess of Russia, afterwards Catherine II., and the English minister promoted the liaison. This circumstance, and the influence of the Czartoryskis, secured the appointment of Poniatowski as Polish Ambassador at St. Petersburg, where he continued his intrigue with the Grand-duchess. Poland, in its degeneracy, had been for some time regarded by Russia as a tributary province. On the death of Augustus II., in 1764, the Grand-duchess, who was now the Empress Catherine II., compelled the Diet to elect Stanislaus Poniatowski as king, under the title of Stanislaus Augustus. The plan for the dismemberment of Poland was first suggested by Catherine; but Prussia and Austria readily enough embraced it, though all these kingdoms, at different periods, owed much |