Edmund Burke

Anonymous, "Ode, on his Majesty's Recovery" Public Advertiser (1 March 1790).

The following Ode was handed about in the polite circles last spring; some copies of it were taken; one of which by accident came into my hands, and I send it to you, that it may appear in the Political Arena, the PUBLIC ADVERTISER.
I am, Sir,
Your humble servant,
An Old Correspondent.

At length, the wild delirium o'er,
A fever racks his brain no more,
Nor Reason's mild persuasion spurns;
His pulse with temperate music flows,
And to a Nation's ardent vows,
Behold their darling King returns.

Oh! spare him, BURKE! 'twas not the nod
Of an incens'd vindictive God,
That from his throne a Tyrant HURL'D;
Debas'd him from the godlike form
Of man, a reptile, a poor worm,
The scorn, and outcast of the world.

Oh! spare him! — Tho' corrupt the times,
No sins were his, no glowing crimes,
To call down Heav'ns avenging thunder:
For sure it was no crime that you,
Good Burke, and your banditti-crew,
Were stopt from places and from plunder.

Yet, "There's the Rub!" — O had he deign'd
That your ill-omen'd rav'nous band,
Might glut your maw with Britain's blood,
Then had you smoothly filed your tongue,
And in soft accents said or sung,
Was ever Prince so wise and good?

Then had we seen St. Stephen's dome,
With flowers from Athens and from Rome,
(Rais'd in an Irish hot-bed) spread:
All cull'd with curious classic care,
If we believe that PEDANT PARR,
To weave a chaplet for his head.

But now the sad reverse we find,
While disappointment goads your mind,
No classic wreath his brow adorns;
From Billingsgate your flowers you bring,
And round the temples of your King,
You try to plant a crown of thorns.