BYRON.

He was a god descended from the skies

To fight the fight of Freedom o'er a grave,

And consecrate a hope he could not save;

For he was weak withal, and foolish-wise.

Dark were his thoughts, and strange his destinies,

And oftentimes his life he did deprave.

But all do pity him, though none despise.

He was a prince of song, though sorrow's slave.

He ask'd for tears,— and they were tinged with fire;

He ask'd for love, and love was sold to him.

He look'd for solace at the goblet's brim,

And found it not; then wept upon his lyre.

He sang the songs of all the world's desire,—

He wears the wreath no rivalry can dim!