As late I lay in Slumber's shadowy vale, <br />With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise, <br />I saw the sainted form of FREEDOM rise: <br />She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale. <br />'Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name, <br />Ere in an evil hour with alter'd voice <br />Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice <br />Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame. <br />Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl! <br />Thee stormy Pity, and the cherished lure <br />Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul, <br />Wildered with meteor fires. Ah, Spirit pure! <br />That error's mist had left thy purged eye: <br />So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy!'<br /><br />Samuel Taylor Coleridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-vii-to-burke/
