15.

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage (5) What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prison'd rage? "The world was mine!"

But one

Unless, like he of Babylon,

All sense is with thy sceptre gone,

Life will not long confine

That spirit pour'd so widely forth-
So long obey'd-so little worth!

16.

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!

NOTES.

Note 1, page 92, line 11.

The rapture of the strife.

C'ertaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila in his harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Chalons, given in Cassiodorus.

Note 5, page 96, line 1.

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage.

The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane.

Note 6, page 96, line 10.

Or like the thief of fire from heaven.

Prometheus.

Note 7, page 96, line 16.

The very Fiend's arch mock.

"The fiend's arch mock

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

VOL. III.

Shakspeare.

K

MONODY

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 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 passed 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 pride.
When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan *

Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man,

*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.