Poems (Davidson)/Byron

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BYRON.
His faults were great, his virtues less, His mind a burning lamp of heaven;His talents were bestowed to bless, But were as vainly lost as given.
His was a harp of heavenly sound, The numbers wild, and bold, and clear;But ah! some demon, hovering round, Tuned its sweet chords to 'Sin and Fear.
His was a mind of giant mould, Which grasped at all beneath the skies;And his a heart, so icy cold, That virtue in its recess dies.
 1823.


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