O what a loud and fearful shriek was there,
 As though a thousand souls one death-groan pour'd!
 Ah me! they saw beneath a Hireling's sword
Their Koskiusko fall! Through the swart air
(As pauses the tir'd Cossac's barbarous yell
 Of Triumph) on the chill and midnight gale
 Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell
The dirge of murder'd Hope! while Freedom pale
Bends in such anguish o'er her destin'd bier,
 As if from eldest time some Spirit meek
 Had gather'd in a mystic urn each tear
That ever on a Patriot's furrow'd cheek
Fit channel found; and she had drain'd the bowl
In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!