Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked-as Kosciusko fell!

'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue.

Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name?

'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief 'Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter! O my daughter!'