That’s fanned by Heaven to mock the Tyrant’s rage:
She, like the eagle, will renew her age,
And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on,—
Another Athens after Marathon,—
Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine,
Bright as her arms that now in battle shine.
Come—should the heavenly shock my life destroy
And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy;
Come but the day when Poland’s fight is won—
And on my grave-stone shine the morrow’s sun—