Note 6, page 45, line 10.
Or like the thief of fire from heaven.

Prometheus.

Note 7, page 45, line 16.

The very Fiend's arch mock.

"The fiend's arch mock

"To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste."—

Shakspeare.

MONODY

ON THE DEATH OF THE

RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN.

SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

MONODY

ON THE DEATH OF THE

RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN.

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 shar'd that calm so still and deep,
The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep
A holy concord-and a bright regret,

A glorious sympathy with suns that set?
"Tis not harsh sorrow-but a tenderer wo,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,

Felt without bitterness-but full and clear,
A sweet dejection-a transparent tear
Uumix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain,
Shed without shame-and secret without pain.

Even as the tenderness that hour instils
When Summer's day declines along the hills,
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 pass'd from day to darkness-to whose hour
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd—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;
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 lighten'd over all,
To cheer-to pierce-to please—or to appal.
From the charm'd council to the festive board,
Of human feelings the unbounded lord ;

In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied,

[pride.

The praised-the proud—who made his praise their When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan (1)

Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man,