It was some Spirit, SHERIDAN! that breath'd

O'er thy young mind such wildly-various power! My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour, Thy temples with Hymettian[88:1] flow'rets wreath'd:

And sweet thy voice, as when o'er LAURA'S bier Sad Music trembled thro' Vauclusa's glade; Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade That wafts soft dreams to SLUMBER'S listening ear.

Now patriot Rage and Indignation high Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry! Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance

The Apostate by the brainless rout ador'd, As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword.

January 29, 1795.