Sonnet VII. To 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!
  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!'