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It was some Spirit, Sheridan ! that breathed
O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there,
poured! Ah me! they saw beneath a hireling's sword Their Kosciusko fall! Though the swart air (As pauses the tired Cossac's barbarous yell Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell The dirge of murdered Hope! while Freedom
pale Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, As if from eldest time some Spirit meek Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear That ever on a patriot's furrowed cheek Fit channel found, and she had drained the bowl In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul !
As when far off the warbled strains are heard
Nor Stanhope ! with the Patriot's doubtful name
* Gallic Liberty.
Thou gentle look, that didst my soul beguile,