Then SHERIDAN! dilating to the storm,
  Bright as the pharos, as the watch-tower strong,
With all the patriot’s inspiration warm,
  Thy genius pour’d its thundering voice along.

Who heard thee not, in that tremendous hour,
  When Britain mourn’d her surest anchor lost,
And saw her alienated Navies lour,
  Like the charged tempest, round their parent coast?

With active zeal, which no cold medium knew,
  Nor party ruled, nor prejudice confined,
But, to thy heart’s spontaneous impulse true,
  Thou gay’st thy country ALL thy mighty mind.

What time Iberia, gash’d with many a scar,
  Braved the fierce Gaul, in fervour uncontroll’d,
Though doubts and fears bedimm’d her struggling star,
  Its bright ascent thy prescient soul foretold.

Late, too, when France, with sophist cunning fraught,
  Essay’d that field which force had fail’d to gain,
And proudly question’d, by success untaught,
  Britannia’s lineal right—­her watery reign!

While meaner foes denounced with equal hate
  Her flag, which wide in Freedom’s cause unfurl’d,
The saving sign of many a sinking state,
  Had chased Oppression from th’ insulted world.—­

Oh! that beyond the light diurnal page,
  Inscribed on high in monumental gold,
That strain might kindle each succeeding age,
  Which thus thy generous indignation roll’d: 

“If e’er, of ancient energy bereaved,
  Britannia, bent by menace or design,
Should stain her naval sceptre, hard-achieved,
  And yield one claim, one cherish’d right resign: 

“Then, hurl’d in ruin from her radiant sphere,
  Sunk her proud Isle in Ocean’s depths profound;
May all her glories pass from Memory’s ear,
  An idle legend—­a derided sound!”

Such were his merits whom the Muse deplores,
  The Wit, the Statesman, Orator, and Bard! 
Nor when his frailties jealous truth explores,
  Shall Candour shrink from her supreme award?

If, all propitious, when his ardent prime
  Beat high with hope, in conscious powers elate,
Ambition woo’d him from her height sublime,
  And partial Fortune op’d her golden gate;

What hostile influence, glooming o’er his way,
  Chill’d each fine impulse, each aspiring aim,
Effused bleak clouds round Life’s declining ray,
  And left his labours no reward but fame?

’Twas not alone that in the festive bower,
  Prompt in the social sympathies to melt,
Too long he linger’d; that the genial hour
  His fervid sense too exquisitely felt.

But that in tasks of public duty proved,
  Onward with faith inflexible he trod;
Alike by Fortune’s dazzling lure unmoved,
  Or stern Necessity’s relentless rod.

E’en Envy’s self shall sanction that applause: 
  And oft, slow pacing yon sepulchral gloom,
With fond regret shall Meditation pause,
  And breathe these accents o’er his honour’d tomb: