As late I lay in Slumber's shadowy vale,
       &nbspWith wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,
       &nbspI saw the sainted form of Freedom rise:
She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale—

'Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,
       &nbspEre in an evil hour with alter'd voice
       &nbspThou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice
Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame.

'Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl!
       &nbspThee stormy Pity and the cherish'd lure
       &nbspOf Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul
Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure!

'That Error's mist had left thy purgéd eye:
So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy!'