X. BYRON.
Reading edition
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!
