"How proud they can press to the funeral array
Of him whom they shunn'd,in his sickness and sorrow--
How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day,
Whose pall shall be held up by Nobles to-morrow!"


The anonymous writer thus characterises the talents of Sheridan:--


"Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man,
The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall--
The orator, dramatist, minstrel,--who ran
Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all?

"Whose mind was an essence, compounded, with art.
From the finest and best of all other men's powers;
Who rul'd, like a wizard, the world of the heart,
And could call up its sunshine, or draw down its showers;

"Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light,
Play'd round every subject, and shone as it play'd;
Whose wit, in the combat as gentle as bright,
Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade,--

"Whose eloquence, brightening whatever it tried,
Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave,
Was as rapid as deep, and as brilliant a tide,
As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!"[1]