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His was the thunder-his the avenging rod,
Which shook the nations through his lips-and blazed Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised.
And here, oh! here, where yet all young and warm
The matchless dialogue-the deathless wit,
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring
Here in their first abode you still may meet,
Which still the splendour of its orb betrays.
But should there be to whom the fatal blight
Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise ;
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye
And stoop to strive with Misery at the door,
Meet sordid Rage-and wrestle with Disgrace,
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne,
But far from us and from our mimic scene
Such things should be-if such have ever been;
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task,
He was your brother-bear his ashes hence!
MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN.
Note 1, page 52, line 27.
When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan.
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 adjourn, to give time for a calmer consideration of the question than could then occur after the immediate effect of that oration.
Note 2, page 55, line 7.
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three! Fox-Pitt-Burke.