Elizabeth Sheridan

M. S., "On the Death of Mrs. Sheridan" Public Advertiser (5 July1792).

O thou so greatly lov'd! so quickly lost!
The tear that o'er thy grave unbidden flows,
Prints on thy living turf a fairer boast,
Than all the fame, that sculptur'd pride bestows.

Science on thee, her early fav'rite, smil'd,
Lur'd from the mazes of her dark retreat;
An led thee swiftly thro' the boundless wild,
To those blest bowers, where Wisdom fix'd her seat.

And oft thy curious step wou'd lightly trace,
The flow'ry margin of the vocal mead;
Where sport the warbling Muse and sprightly Grace,
And sweep the lyre, and wake the tuneful reed.

Tho' pressing on to Fame's exalted shrine,
The dazzling rays of glory round thee play'd;
Still modesty would blend her paths with thine,
Shrink from the glare, and court the milder shade.

But poor the praise that rests on envied art;
Could Wisdom's lips alone thy worth proclaim,
Thine was the feeling breast, the liberal heart,
And ev'ry tongue conspir'd to bless thy name.

Thine was the joy, another's joy to swell,
From pedant strife, indignant far to fly;
With Fancy's beams the gloom of woe dispel,
And dry the tear that melts in Sorrow's eye.
Beaconsfield, Bucks.