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