II[80:1]
BURKE
As late I lay in Slumber's shadowy vale,
With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,
I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise:
She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale—
'Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name, 5
Ere in an evil hour with alter'd voice
Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice
Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame.
'Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl![80:2]
Thee stormy Pity and the cherish'd lure [10]
Of 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!'
December 9, 1794.