T.G.

Yarmouth, Norfolk, 1816.

SHERIDAN.

Embalm’d in fame, and sacred from decay,
  What mighty name, in arms, in arts, or verse,
From England claims this consecrated day. 
  Her nobles crowding round the shadowy hearse?

Hark! from yon fane, within whose hallow’d mounds,
  Her bards, her warriors, and her statesmen, sleep;
The solemn, slow, funereal bell resounds,
  While mournful echoes dread accordance keep.

Spirits revered! beyond that awful bourne. 
  Who share the dark communion of the tomb,
A kindred genius seeks your dread sojourn;
  Ye heirs of glory! hail a brother home.

Obscured, as SHERIDAN to dust descends,
  Recedes each ray from Wit’s effulgent sphere;
Lo! every Muse in silent sorrow bends,
  Her votive laurels mingling o’er his bier.

But chiefly thou, from whose polluted shrine
  His filial hand Circean rabble drove;
What pangs, Thalia! in this hour are thine;
  What fervent anguish of maternal love!

How long perverted, had the Comic scene,
  (The flattering reflex of a sensual age)
Shown prurient Folly’s rank licentious mien,
  Refined, embellish’d on the pander stage: 

While Vanburgh, Congreve, Farquhar, heaven-endow’d,
  To scourge bold Vice with Wit’s resistless rod,
Embraced her chains, stood forth her priests avow’d,
  And scatter’d flowers in every path she trod: 

Inglorious praise! though Judgment’s self admired
  Those wanton strains which Virtue blush’d to hear;
While pamper’d Passion from the scene retired,
  With wilder rage to urge his fierce career.

At length, all graced in Fancy’s orient hues,
  His native fires with added culture bright,
Rose SHERIDAN! to vindicate the Muse,
  And gild the drama with meridian light.

Him, skill’d alike great Nature’s genuine form,
  Or Fashion’s light factitious traits to trace,
The scene confess’d;—­with glowing pathos warm,
  Or gaily sportive in familiar grace.

With what nice art his master-hand he flung
  O’er each fine chord which thrills the polish’d breast,
Let Faukland tell! with woes ideal stung;
  Let gentle Julia’s generous flame attest![1]

Satire, that oft with castigation rude
  Degrades, while zealous to correct mankind,
Refined by him, more generous aims pursued,
  Reform’d the vice—­but left no sting behind.

Yet, though with Wit’s imperishable bays
  Enwreath’d, he held an uncontested throne;
Though circling climes, unanimous in praise,
  Confirm’d the partial suffrage of his own: 

In careless mood he sought the Muse’s bower;
  His lyre, like that to great Pelides strong,
The soft’ning solace of a vacant boor,
  Its airy descant indolently rung.

But when, portentous ’mid the storms of war,
  Glared Public danger; when, with withering din,
The spoil-flush’d foe strode furious from afar;
  And direr dread!  Rebellion raged within: