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.