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 GARLAND 
 
 FOR THE 
 
 GRAVE OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 Price One Shilling and Sixpence. 
 
 Cntei-eU at ^cationer'^ JJ^aU. 
 
Just published. 
 The Fourth Edition of Mr. Phillips's Speech, in 
 the Case of Guthrie against Sterne. — Also, his Speeches 
 on the Catholic Claims. 
 
GARLAND 
 
 THE GRAVE 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
 
 CHARLES PHILLIPS, ESQ, 
 
 u 
 BARRISTER AT LAW. 
 
 " Sepulcriun floribus ornare." 
 
 CICERO. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR N. HAILES, MUSEUM, PICCADILLY, 
 
 181(). 
 
 T 
 

 XVhiltingham and Rowland, Printers, Goswell Street, Loudon. 
 
TO 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 
 
 THE 
 
 FRIEND OF SHERIDAN'S ADVERSITY, 
 
 THE FOLLOWING LINES 
 
 ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 
 
The death of Mr. Sheridan has naturally enough excited 
 no ordinary interest in the Country which he had selected 
 as the sphere of his action. Few men perhaps can ever 
 excite so much, and the reason is obvious; there are 
 very few gifted with such a 'oariety of powers, and of 
 course capable of creating such varied and universal en- 
 joyment. In some individual talent he might have been 
 excelled by many, but who ever possessed so transcendant 
 a combination ! What scene did not his life illumine ! 
 What circle has not his loss eclipsed ! Another Burke 
 may chain the senate — Another Shakspeare crowd the 
 theatre — Another Curran fascinate the board — Another 
 Moore enchant the fancy, or another Hampden vindicate 
 the Land — but where shall we behold their bright varieties 
 again combined, concentrating as it were their several 
 lights, in one refulgent orb that left no cloud untinged — 
 no charm uncreated ! Far am I from the vanity of con- 
 veying that the simple wreath which I have woven to 
 his memory can do any justice either to his merits, or even 
 to my own feelings — it is the offering rather of affection 
 than of justice ; culled from the wild mountains of the 
 unhappy Island which seemed to give him at once both 
 his birth and his character. Who is there that has studied 
 Sheridan without recognizing the human epitome of Ire- 
 land ! Who is there that has not traced the same strange 
 
8 
 
 and peculiar characteristics ! — the careless magnificence — 
 the burning passion — the enchanting eloquence — the 
 ready wit — the generous devotion — the prompt and 
 thoughtless prodigality of self, that fling their alternate 
 shade and sunshine over the uncultured loveliness of her 
 landscape. Alas ! too strikingly has the resemblance 
 closed, and to the indelible disgrace of those who have 
 deserted both the noble heart that offered all its treasures 
 at the shrine of friendship, has been suffered to perish in 
 unpitied penury. But this is a subject from which I must 
 pass away — I cannot write on it without danger, for, thank 
 God, I cannot think on it without indignation. 
 
 In the following Lines I have endeavoured to glance 
 at the leading features of Mr. Sheridan's life — the attempt, 
 in my own eyes exceedingly impotent, has been obtruded 
 on the Public by the importunate partiality of friends — 
 perhaps, however, it may be excused for its motive, and 
 certainly to speak in the spirit of my country, should be 
 palliated by its impracticability — for, who is there so 
 senseless as not to admire my subject — Who so gifted as 
 to do it justice ? 
 
" THOU WERT A SUNBEAM FROM ERIN." — OsSIAN- 
 
 ISl o — shed not a tear upon Sheridan's tomb, 
 
 The moment for sorrow is o'er ; 
 Pale Poverty's cloud, or ingratitude's gloom, 
 
 Can darken that Spirit no more ! 
 He is gone to the Angels that lent him their lyre, 
 He is gone to the world whence he borrow'd his fire, 
 And the brightest and best of the heavenly choir 
 
 The welcome of Paradise pour. 
 
 But over that tomb let proud triumph arise. 
 
 And peal the high anthem of joy to the skies ; 
 
 For, he lived mid corruption, yet cloudless his name. 
 
 For, he died without wealth — save the wealth of his fame- 
 
 With the gem of his genius he brightened the throne. 
 
 But held the rich brilliant, of Honour, his own. 
 
10 
 
 The tongue of the Senate — the life of the board — 
 
 Now revelry lauded — now wisdom adored — 
 
 Till Sense bowed abashed to the bondage of soul, 
 
 And Reason drank pearls dissolved in the bowl ! 
 
 Oh ! w ho shall describe him ! — the Wit and the Sage- 
 
 The heart of the people — the glass of the Stage, 
 
 The Dramatist — Orator — Bard of the Age ! 
 
 Oh ! who can depict the diversified ray 
 
 That illumines the diamond and heralds the day ; 
 
 That flings its bright veil o'er the blushes of Even, 
 
 And blends in the rainbow the riches of Heaven ! 
 
 Such alone may describe all his beauties combined, 
 
 That fire of his fancy — that blossom of mind, 
 
 That union of talents^ so rare, so refined. 
 
 That Echo grew mute at the spell of his tongue. 
 
 That Envy, enchanted, applauded his song, 
 
 That Ignorance worshipped the path which he trod, 
 
 And Heraldry owned the high patent of God. 
 
 He is gone — but his memory sheds a ray 
 That e'en in sorrow cheers ; 
 
11 
 
 As sinking in the ocean surge, 
 Beneath the dulcet sea-maids dirge, 
 The glorious God of parting day 
 Blushes a beam o'er the evening grey, 
 To chase Creation's tears. 
 
 He is gone — but where will the shades of power 
 
 That lived in the light he gave. 
 
 The swarms that basked in his summer hour 
 
 And glittered o'er his grave ? 
 
 Where will that hollow, heartless train 
 
 That fled his couch of want and pain, 
 
 Oh ! where will they look on his likeness again ! 
 
 Where shall the orphan Drama find 
 The breathing of that vernal mind — 
 The morning of that eye — 
 Beneath whose glance of living light, 
 A new creation bland and bright 
 Enchained the ear and charmed the sight ; 
 Whose streams of liquid diamond, rolled 
 Their orient rill o'er sands of gold ! 
 
12 
 
 Whilst Time, amid the laughing hours, 
 Cover'd his wing with fancy's flowers, 
 Blessing the bondage of her bowers. 
 The spell of Mirth and Minstrelsy. 
 
 Did all forget that day of fame 
 When England's beauty, power, and pride, 
 With mingled awe and rapture hung 
 On the rich magic of his tongue ; 
 Whilst India, in her heart's-^blood dyed^ 
 Brandish'd her fetters at his side ! 
 And half forgot an Empire's shame 
 In wonder at his words of flame. 
 
 Did all forget that frightful storm 
 When furious Gallia's anarch form 
 
 Stalked wildly o'er the wave, 
 Till Ocean's pure, imperial gem 
 Hung, quivering in the Diadem ; 
 How, every selfish feeling lost, 
 
13 
 
 Leaving the friends he loved the most, 
 He waved, (himself an angel host) 
 His Abdiel arm to save ! 
 
 But chiefly thou — did^st thou forget 
 The great, incalculable debt 
 Incurred by thee. 
 When for thy sake, almost alone, 
 He made thy doubtful cause his own ; 
 Till robed in light thy errors shone — 
 
 The light of his idolatry ! 
 Didst thou forget the fairy hours 
 When, low in pleasure's wanton bowers. 
 
 Devote to Sense you lay ; 
 How, 'neath his mind's creative ray 
 0*er every fault there sprung such flowers 
 All wrath was charmed away ! 
 Did'st thou forget the hallowed tone 
 That lent thee wisdom — not thine own- 
 The counsel sage — the soul of fire, 
 That beamed away each dim desire. 
 And gave thy darkness, day ! 
 
14 
 
 And could'st thou — at his awful end 
 Forget thine own — thine " early friend !" 
 
 Heavens ! did the faithless festal shout, 
 
 Drown that expiring sigh ; 
 
 And was he, for the rabble rdut^ 
 
 Deserted, left to die ! 
 
 Deserted left, whilst famine raised his bier. 
 
 And even legal rapine dropt a tear. 
 
 In life neglected, let him sleep iii death. 
 Nor feign the mockery of woe for him ; 
 
 Genius shall weave his amaranthine wreath, 
 And airy seraphs chaunt his requiem. 
 
 Erect not now earth's emblematic stone. 
 The starry regions brighten in his fame : 
 
 And ruin rolling o'er the crumbled throne. 
 Can but regenerate that deathless name. 
 
15 
 
 Yet, wounded spirit — not unwept, on thee 
 Shower'd the sharp arrows of adversity. 
 E'en in its darkest hour 'twas thine to prove. 
 The rare consistency of woman's love. 
 Oh love, how rare ! that shunning fortune's da}', 
 Reserves for sorrow's night its lunar ray ! 
 Nor did the kindred Bard, to " memory" dear, 
 Refuse the precious balm of friendship's tear. 
 Celestial tear ! to angel guardians given, 
 Gemm'd in its fall, and carried back to heaven. 
 
 Farewell — farewell, bright spirit of the sky ! 
 Star of green Erin's glorious galaxy ! 
 Others may boast the treasures of an age. 
 When want of crime is want of patronage : 
 In happier times, if e'er a better fate 
 Should raise thy country to her ancient state, 
 When with a throbbing heart she shall survey 
 The friends and glories of her wintry day ; 
 Genius shall proudly point her patriot's tomb. 
 And in their blended tears thy laurels bloom. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 Whittingham and Rowland, Prialers, Goswell Street, London. 
 
9?L. 97 
 
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