MONODY,
TO THE SHADE OF LORD BYRON.
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True,
thou hadst faults—and who has not?
But were thine still of
deeper dye,
Than crimes of some who share that spot
Where thou wert deemed unfit
to lie?
Ah, no!—And yet to judge I dare
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Of
every fruit which bears thy name,
As well as he who would not spare
One corner for thy deathless
fame!
Yet, Westminster, in all her pride
Of sculptured grandeur,
never knew,
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Nor
placed within her marbled side,
A bard, whose claim’s
more justly due.
Then, BYRON! until Time’s last verge,
The weeping muse the tale
shall tell,
And sigh thy melancholy dirge,
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Thou
star of genius, loved too well. [Page 136]
Ah! why say loved?—has not the Dean—*
With soul so pious, weighed
thy worth—
Refused thee all that could remain—
One spot in consecrated
earth!
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But,
sweetest bard—no matter where
The mortal wreck of dust
be thrown—
A monument thou’lt ever share
In hearts of feeling, like
thine own.
Yes, genius will record thy name—
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And
poets yet unborn will sing
Thy lasting praise, and still proclaim
Thee master of the dulcet
string.
The haughty Dean shall be forgot,
Nor known beyond his life’s
short span— [Page 137]
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His
mem’ry with himself shall rot,
Unmourned, unwept by muse
or man.
Oh, BYRON! thou shalt point the way,
Where sordid dullness can’t
obtrude,
And shine, in heaven’s clear galaxy,
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A
star of brightest magnitude.
The rising youth will catch the beam
That falls from splendour
such as thine—
His heart will drink the living stream,
And feel each ray as if
divine.
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And
while he views thine orb so bright,
To yon grey towers his thoughts
he’ll turn—
And ask, who dared oppose thy right
To sleep within her guarded
urn?
Nor can he doubt, there many a heart—
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Though
basely born—ignobly bred—
Has found a tomb, where dwell apart
Memorials of the mighty
dead.
Are trifling fops, whose highest powers
Were spent in fashion’s
giddy round, [Page 138]
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Deemed
worthier of those reverend towers.
For rest upon that sacred
ground?
Or, is it that thy works proclaim
Thy corse unfit to grace
that hall?—
Oh, stranger! read each burnished name,
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And
say, was BYRON’S worse than all?
No—there are bards and lordlings too,
Whose sculptured columns
proudly rise,
Whose souls were black in heaven’s view,
Whose works have spread
despair and sighs.
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Unblushing,
who religion scorned,
Fair virtue mocked in wanton
jest—
Yet, by a worthier crowd adorned,
They press upon thy sacred
breast.
The muse, too modest for the strain,
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Deigns
not to touch the trembling chord,
That here could waken thoughts of pain,
At mention e’en of
many a lord.
But Greece, when o’er the Turkish yoke,
Refulgent shall in glory
rise, [Page 139]
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Will
BYRON’S deathless shade invoke,
And point tow’rds
Britain’s favourite skies.
’Midst bards of old she’ll mix thy name—
Her champion in affliction’s
hour—
Then shalt thou shine with brighter fame,
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And
scorn pale envy’s narrow power.
BYRON, farewell! thy name shall live,
Untouched by time, or fell
decay—
And future bards, in songs, will give
Thy memory to posterity.
[Page 140]
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* Perhaps it may be well
here to observe, that the present Dean of Westminster
would not allow the remains of the immortal BYRON
a small spot among the tombs of his literary countrymen—judging
that the writings and conduct
of the noble Bard had altogether rendered him unworthy
of such an honour!—proh pudor! Yet,
were others to sit in judgment, like the pious Dean!
on the literary foibles and immoral conduct of many
who have been admitted to the sacred precincts of
Westminster, it is almost certain, the uncompromising
BYRON would stand forth from the impartial ordeal,
the most pure and spotless. [back] |
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