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A. SKKTCI1 FROM PRIVATE LIFE. 1<1<]
Skili'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints
Oh ! wretch without a tear—without a thought,
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind?
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,
Black—as thy will for others would create:
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. ,
Oh! may thy grave be sleepless as the bed,—
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain would'st weary Heaven with prayer,
Look on thine earthly victims—and despair!
Down to the dust!—and, as thou rott'st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear—
Thy name—thy human name—to every eye
The climax of all scorn should hang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorred compeers—
And festering in the infamy of years.
March 3o, 1816.
ON THE DEATH OF R. B. SHERIDAN.
Spoken at Drury-lane Theatre.
When the last sunshine of expiring day
The flash of Wit—the bright Intelligence,
The beam of Song—thc bl >ze of Eloquence,
Set \vith their suu—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 loo soon.
But small that portiou of the wondrous whole,
These sparkling segments of that circling soul,
Which all embraced—and lightened over ail,
To cheer—to pierce—to please—or to appal.
From the charmed council to the festive board,
Of human feelings the unbounded lord;
In whose acclaim the loftie't voices vied,
The praised—the proud—who made his praise their prk'r
When the loud cry of trampled Hindustan
Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man,
His was the thunder—his the avenging rod,
The wrath—the delegated voice of God!
Which shook the nations through his lips—and Maze;!
Till vanquished senates trembled as they praised.
And here, oh ! here, where yet all young and warn
The gay creat1ons of his spirit charm,
The matchless dialogue—the deathless wit,
W:hich knew not what it was to intermit;
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 fulness by ihefat 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 Lctrays.
MONODY ON THE DEATH (, F SHERIDAN. 181
Put should there be to whom the fatal blight
These are his portion—but if joined to these