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 altered voice Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame. Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl! Thee stormy Pity and the cherished lure Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul Wildered with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure! That error's mist had left thy purged eye: So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy!' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DAWN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON STANZAS FOR MUSIC (4) by GEORGE GORDON BYRON NEUTRALITY LOATHSOME by ROBERT HERRICK THE THORN by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH MARIZIBILL by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE A CHARM SAID UNDER AN OAK by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN LOVERS AND SWEETHEARTS by PHOEBE CARY THE KNIGHT AND THE FRIAR: PART 1 by GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER |