James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784–1859)

(Who never fought either for Bonaparte or the Allies)

’T IS like thy patient valor 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,

Transformed, not inly altered, 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 stooped with awful sweetness on his hand,

And kissed it; and collected Virtue smiled,

To think how sovereign her enduring hour.