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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,
, Why hast thou left me ? Still in some fond dream Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile!
, As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam : What time, in sickly mood, at parting day I lay me down and think of happier years ; Of Joys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray, Then left me darkling in a vale of tears. O pleasant days of Hope-for ever gone !Could I recall you !—But that thought is vain. Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone To lure the fleet-winged Travellers back again : Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy stream.