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 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!