Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon,
A deathless part of him who died too soon.
But small that portion of the wond'rous whole,
These sparkling segments of that circling soul,
Which all embraced-and lighten'd over all,
To cheer-to pierce—to please—or to appal.
From the charm'd 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,
His was the thunder-his the avenging rod,
The wrath-the delegated voice of God!
Which shook the nations through his lips-and blazed
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised.
And here, O here, where yet all young and warm
The gay creations of his spirit charm,
The matchless dialogue-the deathless wit,
Which knew not what it was to intermit!
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring;
These wond'rous beings of his Fancy, wrought
To fulness by the fiat of his thought,
Here in their first abode you still may meet,
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat;
A halo of the light of other days,
Which still the splendour of its orb betrays.
But should there be to whom the fatal blight
Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight,
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone
Jar in the music which was born their own,
Still let them pause-Ah! little do they know
That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Woe.
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze
Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise;
Repose denies her requiem to his name,
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye
Stands centinel, accuser, judge, and spy,
The foe, the fool, the jealous, and the vain,
The envious, who but breathe in others' pain,
Behold the host! delighting to deprave,
Who track the steps of Glory to the Grave,
Watch every fault that daring Genius owes
Half to the ardour which its birth bestows,
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie,
And pile the Pyramid of Calumny.
These are his portion—but if join'd to these
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease,
If the high spirit must forget to soar,
And stoop to strive with Misery at the door,
To sooth Indignity-and face to face
Meet sordid Rage, and wrestle with Disgrace,
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress,
The serpent fold of further Faithlessness,—
If such may be the ills which men assail,
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ?
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given,
Bear hearts electric-charged with fire from heaven,
Black with the rude collision, inly torn,
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne,
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere, that nurst
Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder, scorcht, and burst. But far from us and from our mimic scene
Such things should be--if such have ever been;
Our's be the gentler wish, the kinder task,
To give the tribute Glory need not ask,
To mourn the vanish'd beam, and add our mite
Of praise in payment of a long delight.
Ye Orators! whom yet our councils yield,
Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field,
The worthy rival of the wondrous THREE,
Whose words were sparks of immortality.
Ye Bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear,
He was your Master-emulate him here.
Ye men of wit and social eloquence;
He was your Brother-bear his ashes hence.
While Powers of Mind almost of boundless range,
Complete in kind, as various in their change;
While Eloquence-Wit-Poesy-and Mirth,
That humbler harmonist of care on earth-
Survive within our souls; while lives our sense
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence ;-
Long shall we seek his likeness-long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may remain,
Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man,
And broke the die-in moulding Sheridan.
NIGHT is the time for rest;
How sweet when labours close,
To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose;
Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed!
Pitt-Fox-Burke.
Night is the time for dreams;
The gay romance of life,
When truth that is and truth that seems
Blend in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are!
Night is the time for toil;
To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is our's that sages taught,
That poets sang or heroes wrought,
Night is the time to weep;
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep
The joys of other years;
Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perish'd young, like things of earth!
Night is the time to watch;
On ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the home sick mind All we have loved and left behind.
Night is the time for care;
Brooding on hours mis-spent, To see the spectre of Despair
Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost.
Night is the time to muse;
Then from the eye the soul
Takes flight, and with expanding views
Beyond the starry pole
Descries, athwart the abyss of night,
The dawn of uncreated light.
Night is the time to pray;
Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away,
So will his followers too;
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.
Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,
From sin and suffering cease,
Think of Heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends :-such death be mine!
"Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?"-Job v.
AND where is he? not by the side
Of her whose wants he loved to tend; Not o'er those valleys wandering wide, Where sweetly lost, he oft would wend !
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