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LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY T. DAVISON, WHITEFRIAHS, 
 
OS THE DEATH OF 
 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 R. B. SHERIDAN, 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A FRIEND, 
 
 TO BE SPOKEN AT 
 
 DRURY LANE THEATRE, 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 
 
 1816. 
 
A 
 
 MONODY. 
 
 When the last sunshine of expiring day 
 In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 
 Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
 Sink on the heart — as dew along the flower? 
 With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 
 While Nature makes that melancholy pause, 
 Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 
 Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, 
 Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, 
 The voiceless thought which would not speak but 
 weep, iq 
 
 3G£5 3% 
 
A holy concord — and a bright regret, 
 A glorious sympathy with suns that set? 
 "Tis not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer woe, 
 Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 
 Felt without bitterness — but full and clear, 
 A sweet dejection — a transparent tear 
 Unmixed with worldly grief — or selfish stain, 
 Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 
 
 Even as the tenderness that hour instills 
 When Summer's day declines along the hills, 20 
 So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes 
 When all of Genius which can perish — dies. 
 
 A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a Power 
 Hath passed from day to darkness — to whose hour 
 Of light no likeness is bequeathed — no name, 
 Focus at once of all the rays of Fame! 
 The flash of Wit — the bright Intelligence, 
 The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 
 Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 
 The enduring produce of immortal Mind, 30 
 
7 
 
 Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
 A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
 But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 
 These sparkling segments of that circling soul, 
 Which all embraced — and lightened over all, 
 To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appall, 
 From the charmed council — to the festive board 
 Of human feelings the unbounded lord, 
 In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, 
 The praised — the proud — who made his praise 
 their pride: 40 
 
 # When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan 
 Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 
 His was the thunder- — his the avenging rod, 
 The wrath— the delegated voice of God ! 
 
 * See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's 
 speech on the charges exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the 
 House of Commons. Mr. Pitt entreated the House to ad- 
 journ, to give time for a calmer consideration of the question 
 than could then occur after the immediate effect of that 
 oration. 
 
8 
 
 Which shook the nations through his lips— and 
 
 blazed 
 Till vanquished senates trembled as they praised. 
 
 And here, oh! here, where yet all young and 
 
 warm 
 The gay creations of his spirit charm, 
 The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit 
 Which knew not what it was to intermit, 50 
 
 The glowing portraits fresh from life that bring 
 Home to our hearts the truth from which they 
 
 spring, 
 These wondrous beings of his Fancy wrought 
 To fullness by the fiat of his thought, 
 Here in their first abode you still may meet 
 Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat, 
 A halo of the light of other days- 
 Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 
 
 But should there be to whom the fatal blight 
 Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, 60 
 
9 
 
 Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
 Jar in the music which was born their own, 
 Still let them pause — Ah! little do they know 
 That what to them seemed Vice might be but Woe. 
 
 Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
 Is fixed for ever to detract or praise, 
 Repose denies her requiem to his name, 
 And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
 The secret enemy whose sleepless eye . 
 Stands sentinel — accuser — judge — and spy, 70 
 The foe — the fool — the jealous — and the vain, 
 The envious who bat breathe in others' pain, 
 Behold the host ! delighting to deprave, 
 Who track the steps of Glory to the grave, 
 Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 
 Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, 
 Distort the truth— accumulate the lie 
 And pile the Pyramid of Calumny ! 
 
 These are his portion — but if joined to these 
 Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, 
 
10 
 If the high Spirit must forget to soar, 
 And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, 
 To soothe Indignity — and face to face 
 Meet sordid Rage — and wrestle with Disgrace, 
 To find in Hope but the renewed caress, 
 The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness, — 
 If such may be the Ills which men assail, 
 What marvel if at last the mightiest fail? 
 Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 
 Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from 
 
 Heaven, 90 
 
 Black with the rude collision — inly torn, 
 By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 
 Driven o'er the lowering Atmosphere that nurst 
 Thoughts which have turned to thunder — scorch 
 
 — and burst. 
 
 But far from us and from our mimic scene 
 Such things should be — if such have ever been; 
 Our's be the gentler wish, the kinder task, 
 To give the tribute Glory need not ask, 
 
II 
 
 To mourn the vanished beam — and add our mite 
 Of praise in payment of a long delight. 100 
 
 Ye Orators! whom yet our councils yield, 
 
 Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field! 
 
 The worthy rival of the wondrous Three!* 
 
 Whose words were sparks of Immortality! 
 
 Ye Bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear 9 
 
 He was your Master — emulate him here! 
 
 Ye men of wit and social eloquence! 
 
 He was your Brother — bear his ashes hence! 
 
 While Powers of Mind almost of boundless 
 
 range 
 Complete in kind — as various in their change, 110 
 While Eloquence — Wit — Poesy — and Mirth 
 That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth, 
 Survive within our souls — while lives our sense 
 Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence, 
 
 * Fox— Pitt— Burke. 
 
12 
 
 Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain, 
 And turn to all of him which may remain, 
 Sighing that Nature formed but one such man 
 And hrOke the die — in moulding Sheridan! 118 
 
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