It was some spirit, Sheridan! that breath'd br O'er thy young mind such wildly-various power! br My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour, br Thy temples with Hymettian flowrets wreath'd: br And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier br Sad music trembled thro' Vauclusa's glade; br Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade br That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's list'ning ear. br Now patriot Rage and Indignation high br Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance br Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry! br Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance br Th' Apostate by the brainless rout adores, br As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword.