Burke

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!'