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Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Sonnet VII. To Burke
Work rating: Low

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!`
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