To Kosciusko

'T IS 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,
Transformed, not inly altered, to the spade,
Thy never-yielding right to a calm sleep

Nature, 'twould seem, would leave to man's worse wit
The small and noisier parts of this world's frame,
And keep the calm green amplitudes of it
Sacred from fopperies and inconstant blame.
Cities may change, and sovereigns; but 'tis fit,
Thou, and the country old, be still the same
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