TO 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? As when far off the golden Evening sails, The gorgeous vision sets in endless shade. But shall the musing shade for this lament, Or mourn the wizard's Gothick fabrick rent? Shall he, with Fancy's poor and pensive child, 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, evʼn 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, With crimson banner marches through the land, Whilst man, a trodden worm, looks up, and dies; Upon the bury'd sorrows and the cries 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; |