Classic Poem

B YRON the titled! not of him I sing
Who wore the coronet with aching brow:
Byron the bard alone my muse inspires;
His genius only bids my spirit bow.

Impetuous Byron! Like a torrent poured
His glowing words along the emblazoned page,
As, like an Arab steed o'er desert sands,
With fiery haste he passed from youth to age.

Alas! that verse like his, which charms the heart,
And like sweet music fascinates the soul,
The lustre of a snow-white pureness needs,
The virtuous mind serenely to control.

Byron the poet on Parnassus stands,
His regal brow with early laurels crowned:
Where stands the man? Alas, if on Mount Zion
The soul unprisoned ne'er hath been renowned!

Oh that his heart had bowed, in youth's bright hour
Or fame-wreathed manhood, to the law divine,
That not alone among the bards of earth
His laurelled coronet might ever shine!

Too late? In God's firm hand the scales abide;
We leave him to the Judge who cannot err,
But sigh to think the poet we have loved
Was never here , through Christ, a conqueror.

Then, loving, grieving, read " Childe Harold " o'er,
And trace the footsteps of a royal mind,
And wish that he in Christian faith had bowed,
And known the luxury of a will resigned.