It was some Spirit, Sheridan! that breath'd
       &nbspO'er thy young mind such wildly-various power!
       &nbspMy 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
       &nbspSad Music trembled thro' Vauclusa's glade;
       &nbspSweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade
That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear.

Now patriot Rage and Indignation high
       &nbspSwell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance
       &nbspMeanings 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.