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 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.
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