Ah! is the noble Patriot dead,
That glorious Pole, who, wisely brave,
Oft for his country fought and bled,
And strove her liberties to save:—
Oft, in the blazing front, he dar'd
The miscreant Russians, undeterr'd
By their ferocious vassal bands;
And, ardent for his country's weal,
Bath'd in their lives his conq'ring steel,
And gore of slaves defil'd his hands.

Plain, in the simple dignity
Of Man , no gorgeous garb he wore—
Dress'd like the humble peasantry,
Which still endear'd their Gen'ral more—
With them he ev'ry toil sustain'd,
And whilst one ray of Hope remain'd,
He urg'd them F REEDOM to defend;
But, soon, the H ERO wounded lies,
Fell Tyranny secures his prize,
And leads in chains his country's friend.

O may the rumour be untrue,
And K OSCIUSKO see, again,
Fair Freedom's banners meet his view,
And rouze to noble deeds his men:
May Despotism, in his grasp,
Convuls'd with an expiring gasp,
Yield his dark soul to endless Night—
May Freedom's light on Poland shine,
And ev'ry virtue there combine,
That can the Patriot's mind delight.