Or like the thief of fire from heaven, (6)
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him, the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock!
Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst,
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very Fiend's arch mock; (7)
He in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!
Note 1, page 113, line 2.
The rapture of the strife.
Certaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila in his harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Chalons, given in Cassiodorus.
Note 5, page 118, line 10.
Thou Timour! in his captive's cage.
The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane..
Note 6, page 119, line 1.
Or like the thief of fire from heaven.
Note 7, page 119, line 7.
The very Fiend's arch mock.
"The fiend's arch mock
"To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste.”—
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 tenderer woe,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,
Felt without bitterness-but full and clear,
A sweet dejection-a transparent tear,
Unmix'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,
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,
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 vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised.
And here, oh! here, where yet all young
The gay creations of his spirit charm,
The matchless dialogue-the deathless wit,
Which 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 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,
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