THE PORTRAIT OF LORD BYRON,
AT NEWSTEAD ABBEY.
INSCRIBED TO LORD BYRON'S SISTER, MRS. GEORGE LEIGH.
It is the face of youth—and yet not young;
The purple lights, the ready smiles have vanished;
The shadows by the weary forehead flung,
The gayer influences of life have banished.
'Tis sad, and fixed—yet we can fancy gleams
Of feverish spirits, suddenly awaking.
Flinging aside doubts, fancies, fears, and dreams,
Like some red fire on startled midnight breaking.
'Tis an uncertain thing—a mind so framed,
Glorious the birthright which its powers inherit,
Mingling the loved—the feared—the praised—the blamed-
The constant struggle of the clay and spirit.
His name is on the haunted shade,
His name is on the air;
We walk the forest's twilight glade,
And only he is there.
The ivy wandering o'er the wall,
The fountain falling musical,
Proclaim him everywhere,
The heart is full of him, and flings
Itself on all surrounding things.
