As, in far realms, where eastern kings are laid, In pomp of death, beneath the cypress shade, The perfum’d lamp with unextinguish’d light Flames through the vault, and cheers the gloom of night: So, mighty BURKE! in thy sepulchral urn, To Fancy’s view, the lamp of Truth shall burn. Thither late times shall turn their reverent eyes, 400 Led by thy light, and by thy wisdom wise. There _are_, to whom (_their_ taste such pleasures cloy) No light thy wisdom yields, thy wit no joy. Peace to their heavy heads, and callous hearts, Peace—such as sloth, as ignorance imparts! Pleas’d may they live to plan their country’s good, And crop with calm content their flow’ry food! What though thy venturous spirit loved to urge The labouring theme to Reason’s utmost verge, Kindling and mounting from th’ enraptur’d sight; 410 Still anxious wonder watch’d thy daring flight! While vulgar minds, with mean malignant stare, Gazed up, the triumph of thy fall to share! Poor triumph! price of that extorted praise, Which still to daring Genius Envy pays. Oh! for thy playful smile, thy potent frown, To abash bold Vice, and laugh pert Folly down! So should the Muse, in Humour’s happiest vein, With verse that flowed in metaphoric strain, And apt allusions to the rural trade, 420 Tell of _what wood young_ JACOBINS _are made_; How the skill’d gardener grafts with nicest rule The _slip_ of coxcomb on the _stock_ of fool; Forth in bright blossom bursts the tender sprig, A thing to wonder at—[329] perhaps a _Whig_: Should tell, how wise each half-fledged pedant prates Of weightiest matters, grave distinctions states, That rules of policy, and public good, In Saxon times were rightly understood; That kings are proper, _may be_ useful things, 430 But then, some gentlemen object to kings; That in all times the minister’s to blame; That British liberty’s an empty name, Till each fair burgh, numerically free, Shall choose its members by _the Rule of Three_. So should the Muse, with verse in thunder clothed, Proclaim the crimes by God and Nature loathed. Which—when fell poison revels in the veins— (That poison fell, which frantic _Gallia_ drains From the crude fruit of Freedom’s blasted tree) 440 Blot the fair records of Humanity. To feebler nations let proud _France_ afford Her damning choice,—the chalice or the sword, To drink or die;—O fraud! O specious lie! Delusive choice! for _if_ they drink, they die. The Sword we dread not:—of ourselves secure, Firm were our strength, our peace and freedom sure. Let all the world confederate all its powers, “Be they not backed by those that should be ours,” High on his rock shall BRITAIN’S GENIUS stand, 450 Scatter the crowded hosts, and vindicate the land.