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PORTRAIT OF LORD BYRON.
Oh, if there be one sullied page
Unworthy of thy name,
The weakness of a mighty one,
To dwell on it were shame;
Were cruelty, when thy fine mind
Has left such nobler store behind.
But thou art with the dead,—thy life
In such a cause was given,
Most glorious in the sight of man,
Precious in that of heaven.
Marathon, and Thermopylæ:
Such soil was fitting grave for thee!
Oh, England! to thy young and brave
Is not this stirring call,
To free the fallen from the chain,
To break the tyrant's thrall,
His life has not been spent in vain
If Greece shall burst the Moslem chain.
L. E. L.
