Siddons! the Muse, for many a joy refin'd,
Feelings which ever seem too swiftly fled-
For those delicious tears she loves to shed,
Around thy brow the wreath of praise would bind-
But can her feeble notes thy praise unfold?
Repeat the tones each changing passion gives,
Or mark where nature in thy action lives,
Where, in thy pause, she speaks a pang untold!
When fierce ambition steels thy daring breast,
When from thy frantic look our glance recedes;
Or oh, divine enthusiast! when opprest
By anxious love, that eye of softness pleads-
The sun-beam all can feel, but who can trace
The instant light, and catch the radiant grace!