13
Nor scrolls essay an endless meed to give;
In grateful memory still thy deeds must live.
No sculptured marble shall be raised to thee,
The hearts of England will thy memoirs be.
To thee the Muse attunes no venal lyre,
No thirsts of gold the vocal lays inspire;
No interests plead, no fiery passions swell;
Whilst to thy praise she wakes her feeble shell,
She need not speak it, for the pen of fame
On every heart has written BURDETT'S name;
For thou art he, who dared in tumult's hour,
Dauntless thy tide of eloquence to pour;
Who, fearless, stemmed stern Despotism's course,
Who traced Oppression to its foulest source;
Who bade Ambition tremble on its throne—
How could I virtue name, how yet pass on
Thy name!—though fruitless thy divine essay,
Though vain thy war against fell power's array,
Thou taintless emanation from the sky!
Thou purest spark of fires which never die!
In grateful memory still thy deeds must live.
No sculptured marble shall be raised to thee,
The hearts of England will thy memoirs be.
To thee the Muse attunes no venal lyre,
No thirsts of gold the vocal lays inspire;
No interests plead, no fiery passions swell;
Whilst to thy praise she wakes her feeble shell,
She need not speak it, for the pen of fame
On every heart has written BURDETT'S name;
For thou art he, who dared in tumult's hour,
Dauntless thy tide of eloquence to pour;
Who, fearless, stemmed stern Despotism's course,
Who traced Oppression to its foulest source;
Who bade Ambition tremble on its throne—
How could I virtue name, how yet pass on
Thy name!—though fruitless thy divine essay,
Though vain thy war against fell power's array,
Thou taintless emanation from the sky!
Thou purest spark of fires which never die!
