And thus once entered into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,
Did not still walk beside thee - but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell
In Janus-spirits the significant eye Which learns to lie with silence
Of Prudence, with advantages annexed-
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end-
All found a place in thy philosophy.
The means were worthy, and the end is won
I would not do by thee as thou hast done!
DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN,
SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE. *
* [Mr. Sheridan died the 7th of July, 1816, and this monody was written at Diodati on the 17th, at the request of Mr. Douglas Kinnaird. "I did as well as I could," says Byron, "but where I have not my choice, I pretend to answer for nothing." He told Lady Blessington, however, that his feelings were never more excited than while writing it, and that every word came direct from his heart.]
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,
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
Of light no likeness is bequeathed
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 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
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