SONNET
TO
MRS.
SIDDONS
.
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
wreaths
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
mournful
love
,
that
eye
of
softness
pleads
?
The
sunbeam
all
can
feel
,
but
who
can
trace
The
instant
light
,
and
catch
the
radiant
grace
?