  Patriot for England's conscience! Champion keen Of man's one holy birthright! dear grey head, Laurell'd with blessings!—Hath my country bred Lips, to her shame, in unregenerate spleen Profaning heaven's own air with words unclean Against thy sacred name?—Th' august pure Dead In calm of glory sleep:—like them serene, In virtue firmlier mail'd than they with dust, Wait, Clarkson, on our sorrow-trodden sphere, Until her climes waft promise to thine ear, How each thy proud renown will have in trust: Then call'd, at the life-judging Throne appear On the right hand, avouched Loving and Just. A. B. |
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