BYRON
Its heart of passion,—and for life unbound
By chain or creed the measureless desire;
Gave to one poet these, and manifold
High thoughts, beyond our lesser mortal share,—
Gave dreams of beauty, yes, and with a mould
The antique world had worshipped made him fair;
Then touched his lips with music,—lit his brow,
Even as a fane upon a sunward hill,
For strength, gave scorn, the pride that would not bow,
The glorious weapon of a dauntless will.
But that the surcharged spirit—a vapor pent
In beetling crags—a torrent barriered long—
A wind 'gainst heaven's four winds imminent—
Might memorably vent its noble song,
Each soaring gift was fretted with a band
That deadlier clung which way he fain would press:
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