LORD BYRON.


A man of rank and of capacious soul,
Who riches had, and fame beyond desire,
An heir to flattery, to titles born,
And reputation and luxurious life;
Yet not content with his ancestral name,
Or to be known, because his fathers were,
He, on this height hereditary, stood,
And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart
To take another step. Above him, seemed
Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat
Of canonized bards; and thitherward,
By nature taught, and native melody,
In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye.
No cost was spared--what books he wished, he read;
What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see
He saw. And first in rambling school-boy days
Britannia's mountain walks and heath girt lakes,
And story telling glens, and founts, and brooks,
And maids as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul,
With grandeur filled, and melody, and love.
Then travel came and took him where he wished;
He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp,
And mused alone on ancient mountain brows,
And mused on battle fields, where valor fought
In other days: and mused on men, grey
With years: and drank from old and fabulous wells,