Whose copious tongue with Grecian richness flow’d;
Well hast thou found (if such thy country’s doom),
A timely refuge in the sheltering tomb!
As, in far realms, where eastern kings are laid,
In pomp of death, beneath the cypress shade,
The perfum’d lamp with unextinguish’d light
Flames through the vault, and cheers the gloom of night:
So, mighty Burke! in thy sepulchral urn,
To Fancy’s view, the lamp of Truth shall burn.
Thither late times shall turn their reverent eyes,