The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/To Kosciusko
For works with similar titles, see To Kosciusko.
TO KOSCIUSKO,
WHO NEVER FOUGHT EITHER FOR BUONAPARTE OR THE ALLIES.
'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.
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.[1]
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.[1]
- ↑ The author heard Mrs. West (the artist's wife) very agreeably say,—"The Duke of Bedford came in while my husband was painting Kosciusko's portrait. He stooped down upon the General's hand as he reclined on the sofa, and kissed it; and I fell in love with him."—This was Francis, fifth Duke of Bedford, whose statue is in Russell Square.