Samuel Taylor Coleridge — 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!'