ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN. SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE.
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, A holy concord — and a bright regret,
A glorious sympathy with suns that set?
"Tis not harsh sorrow but a tender 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, So feels the fullness of our heart and eyes When all the 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;
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
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!
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;
The glowing portaits, 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,
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 martrydom of Fame.
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye
Stands sentinel · accuser — judge — and spy,
The foe the fool- the jealous - and the vain,
The envious who but 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!
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease,
If the high Spirit must forget to soar,
And stoop to strive with Misery at the door,
To sooth 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,
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;
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task,
To give the tribute Glory need not ask,
To mourn the vanished beam - and add our mite
Of praise in payment of a long delight.
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,
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,
While eloquence - Wit - Poesy — and Mirth,
That humble Harmonist of care on Earth,
Survive within our souls - while lives our sense
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence,
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 broke the die in moulding Sheridan!
My sister! my sweet sister! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: Go where I will, to me thou art the same — A loved regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destiny,A world to roam through, and a home with thee.
The first were nothing—had I still the last,
It were the haven of my happiness;
But other claims and other ties thou hast,
And mine is not the wish to make them less.
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress:
Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore,— He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.
If my inheritance of storms hath been
In other elements, and on the rocks
Of perils overlooked or unforeseen,
I have sustained my share of worldly shocks,
The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen
My erors with defensive paradox;
I have been cunning in mine overthrow, The careful pilot of my proper woe.
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