Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
VII. On the Last Failure of KosciuskoSamuel Taylor Coleridge (17721834)
O
As though a thousand souls one death-groan poured!
Ah me! they saw beneath a hireling’s sword
Their K
(As pauses the tired Cossack’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!