To Kosciusko

'Tis like thy patient valour thus to keep, Great Kosciusko, to the rural shade, While Freedom's ill-found amulet still is made Pretence for old aggression, and a heap Of selfish mockeries. There, as in the sweep Of stormier fields, thou earnest with thy blade, Transform'd, not inly alter'd, to the spade, Thy never yielding right to a calm sleep.

There came a wanderer, borne from land to land Upon a couch, pale, many-wounded, mild, His brow with patient pain dulcetly sour. Men stoop'd with awful sweetness on his hand, And kiss'd it; and collected Virtue smiled, To think how sovereign her enduring hour.