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, 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 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.