Monody On The Death Of The Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan

When the last sunshine of expiring day In summer’s twilight weeps itself away, Who hath not felt the softness of the hour Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes While Nature makes that melancholy pause, Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, Who hath not shared that calm, so still and deep, The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep, A holy concord, and a bright regret, A glorious sympathy with suns that set? ‘Tis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer woe, Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, Felt without bitterness, but full and clear, A sweet dejection, a transparent tear, Unmix’d with worldly grief or selfish stain, Shed without shame, and secret without pain. Even as the tenderness that hour instils When Summer’s day declines along the hills. So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes When all of Genius which can perish dies. A mighty Spirit is eclipsed – a Power Hath pass’d from day to darkness – to whose hour Of light no likeness is bequeath’d – no name, Focus at once of all the rays of Fame! The flash of Wit, the bright Intelligence, The beam of Song, the blaze of Eloquence, Set with their Sun, but still have left be­hind The enduring produce of immortal Mind; Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, A deathless part of him who died too soon. But small that portion of the wondrous 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, oh! here, where yet all young and warm, The gay creations of is 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 wondrous 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 Woo. 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 sentinel, 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 troth, 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 soothe 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 thunderscorch, and burst. But far from us and from our mimic scene Such things should be – if such have ever been Ours 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 her! 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 preeminence, 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!