ΤΟ

MR. BURKE.

WHY mourns th' ingenuous moralist, whose mind Science has stor'd, and piety refin'd,

That fading Chivalry displays no more

Her pomp, and stately tournaments of yore?
Lo! when Philosophy and Truth advance,
Scar'd at their frown, she drops her glittering lance;
Round her reft castles the pale ivy crawls,
And sunk and silent are her banner'd halls!

As when far off the golden Evening sails,
And slowly sink the fancy-painted vales,
With rich pavillions spread in long array;
So rolls the enchanter's radiant realm away;
So on the sight the parting glories fade,
The gorgeous vision sets in endless shade.
But shall the musing sage for this lament,
Or mourn the wizard's Gothick fabrick rent?

Shall he, with Fancy's poor and pensive child,
Gaze on his shadowy vales, and prospects wild,
With ling'ring love, and sighing bid farewell.
To the dim pictures of his parting spell?

No, BURKE! thy heart by juster feelings led, Mourns for the spirit of high Honour fled: Mourns that Philosophy, abstract and cold, With'ring should smite life's fancy-flower'd mould; And many a smiling sympathy depart,

That grac'd the sternness of the manly heart.

Nor shall the wise and virtuous scan severe These fair illusions, ev'n to nature dear. Though now no more proud Chivalry recalls Her tourneys bright, and pealing festivals; Though now on high her idle spear is hung, Though time her mould'ring harp has half unstrung; Her milder influence shall she still impart To decorate, but not disguise, the heart; To nurse the tender sympathies that play In the short sunshine of life's early way; For female worth and meekness, to inspire Homage and love, and temper rude desire;

Nor seldom with sweet dreams sad thoughts to cheer, And half beguile affliction of her tear!

Lo! this her boast; and still, O BURKE! be thine Her glowing hues that warm, yet temper'd shine: Whilst whispers bland, and fairest dreams, attend Thy evening path till the last shade descend! So may she soothe, with loftier wisdom's aid, Thy musing leisure in the silent shade, And bid poor Fancy, her cold pinions wet, Life's cloudy skies and beating show'rs forget. But can her fairest form, her sweetest song, Soothe thee, assail'd by calumny and wrong? Ev'n now thy foes with louder accents cry, "Champion of unrelenting tyranny,

"At Freedom hast thou aim'd the deadly blow, "And strove with impious arm to lay her altars low!"

NO, BURKE! indignant at the voice we start: We trust thy liberal views, thy generous heart: We think of those who, naked, pale, and poor, Reliev'd and bless'd, have wander'd from thy door: We see thee with unweary'd step explore

Each track of bloodshed on the farthest shore

Of injur'd Asia, and thy swelling breast

Harrowing the oppressor, mourning for the oppress'd.

NO, BURKE! where'er Injustice rears her head,
Where'er with blood her idol grim is fed;
Where'er fell Cruelty at her command

With crimson banner marches through the land,
And striding, like a giant, onward hies,

Whilst man, a trodden worm, looks up, and dies;
Where'er pale Murder in her train appears

With reeking axe, and garments wet with tears;
Or low'ring Jealousy, unmov'd as fate,
Bars fast the prison-cage's iron gate

Upon the bury'd sorrows and the cries

Of him who there, lost and forgotten, lies:
When ministers like these, in fearful state,
Upon a bloody tyrant's bidding wait,
Thou too shalt own (and justice lift her rod)
The cause of Freedom is the cause of GOD?

Fair Spirit! who dost rise in beauteous pride
Where proud Oppression hath thine arm defy'd;
When led by Virtue thou dost firm advance,
And bathe in Guilt's warm blood thy burning lance

When all thy form its awful port assumes,
And in the tempest shake thy crimson plumes,
I mark thy lofty mien, thy steady eye,

"SO FALL THY FOES!" with tears of joy, I cry.

But ne'er may Anarchy, with eyes on flame, And mien distract, assume thy awful name, Her pale torch sheds afar its hideous glare,

And shews the blood-drops in her dabbled hair;

The fiends of discord hear her hollow voice,

The spirits of the deathful storm rejoice :

As when the rising blast with muttering sweep
Sounds 'mid the branches of the forest deep,
The sad horizon lowers, the parting sun

Is hid, strange murmurs through the high wood run,
The falcon wheels away his mournful flight,

And leaves the glens to solitude and night;
Till soon the hurricane, in dismal shroud,
Comes fearful forth, and sounds her conch aloud;
The oak majestick bows his hoary head,
And ruin round his ancient reign is spread;
So the dark fiend, rejoicing in her might,
Pours desolation and the storm of night;
Before her dread career the good and just
Fly far, or sink expiring in the dust;