She rises not a beggar from the tomb:
In Fortune’s frown, on Danger’s giddiest brink,
Despair and Poland’s name must never link.
All ills have bounds—plague, whirlwind, fire, and flood:
E’en power can spill but bounded sums of blood.
States caring not what freedom’s price may be,
May late or soon, but must at last be free;
For body-killing tyrants cannot kill
The public soul—the hereditary will
That downward as from sire to son it goes,