Ye Muses! come, with ministry divine. 
  Protect the shrine where SHERIDAN is laid;
Ye Patriot Virtues! here your homage join;
  Assert his worth, and soothe his hovering shade.

Emblazon’d high in Albion’s rolls of fame,
  A guiding star by which her sons may steer;
This proud inscription let his memory claim—­
  Above himself, he held his Country dear!

[Footnote 1:  Rivals.]

ON THE BEAUTIFUL PORTRAIT OF MRS. FOREMAN, AS PANDORA.

In the Somerset-house Exhibition, 1826.—­Painted by J.P.  Davis.

Oh! had’st thou, Jove! with adamantine locks
Fix’d fast the springs of poor Pandora’s box,
Then had she, bright enchantment! bloom’d for ever
In all the charms consenting Gods could give her—­
Wit, Wisdom, Beauty, she had every grace
Which makes man play the madman for a face! 
But chief, bless’d gift! for him ordain’d to ask it,
The gem of gems, th’ incomparable casket;
And, lo! with trembling hands and ardent eyes
The bridegroom claims it—­and—­behold the prize! 
First, like a vapour o’er the heavens obscured,
From that dark confine, rose the fiends immured,
Then groan’d the earth, in fury swell’d the floods,
Blasts smote the harvests, lightning fired the woods;
Blue spotted Plague rode gibbering on the blast,
And nations shriek’d, and perish’d, as he pass’d. 
Amazed, indignant, Epimetheus stood,
Vow’d dire revenge, and strung his nerves for blood. 
It was not then, that from the coffer’s lid
Hope’s roseate smile his fierce delirium chid;
He saw, in that fair wife which heaven had sent
But mighty Mischiefs mortal instrument,
And swore not Hope, nor Mercy’s self should save her,
Look’d in her face, smiled, sigh’d, and then—­forgave her!

SONNET

TO——­,

ON HER RECOVERY FROM ILLNESS.

Fair flower! that fall’n beneath the angry blast,
Which marks with wither’d sweets its fearful way,
I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast,
While beauty’s trembling tints fade fast away. 
But who is she, that from the mountain’s head
Comes gaily on, cheering the child of earth? 
The walks of woe bloom bright beneath her tread,
And Nature smiles with renovated mirth? 
’Tis Health!  She comes:  and, hark! the vallies ring,
And, hark! the echoing hills repeat the sound: 
She sheds the new-blown blossoms of the spring,
And all their fragrance floats her footsteps round. 
And, hark! she whispers in the zephyr’s voice,
Lift up thy head, fair floweret, and rejoice!

THE RUNAWAY.

Ah! who is he by Cynthia’s gleam
  Discern’d, the statue of distress;
Weeping beside the willow’d stream
  That laves the woodland wilderness?

Why talks he to the idle air? 
  Why, listless, at his length reclined,
Heaves he the groan of deep despair,
  Responsive of the midnight wind?