I do not blame them; I'm inclined to think That with the reigning taste 'tis vain to quarrel, And Burns might teach his votaries to drink, And Byron never meant to make them moral. You yet have lovers true, who will not shrink From lauding you and giving you the laurel; The Germans too, those men of blood and iron, Of all our poets chiefly swear by Byron.

Farewell, thou Titan fairer than the Gods! Farewell, farewell, thou swift and lovely spirit, Thou splendid warrior with the world at odds, Unpraised, unpraisable, beyond thy merit; Chased, like Orestes, by the Furies' rods, Like him at length thy peace dost thou inherit; Beholding whom, men think how fairer far Than all the steadfast stars the wandering star! { 9}

Wise Omar, do the Southern Breezes fling Above your Grave, at ending of the Spring, The Snowdrift of the Petals of the Rose, The wild white Roses you were wont to sing?

Far in the South I know a Land divine, { 10} And there is many a Saint and many a Shrine, And over all the Shrines the Blossom blows Of Roses that were dear to you as Wine.

You were a Saint of unbelieving Days, Liking your Life and happy in Men's Praise; Enough for you the Shade beneath the Bough, Enough to watch the wild World go its Ways.

Dreadless and hopeless thou of Heaven or Hell, Careless of Words thou hadst not Skill to spell, Content to know not all thou knowest now, What's Death? Doth any Pitcher dread the Well?

The Pitchers we, whose Maker makes them ill, Shall He torment them if they chance to spill? Nay, like the broken Potsherds are we cast Forth and forgotten,--and what will be will!

So still were we, before the Months began That rounded us and shaped us into Man. So still we SHALL be, surely, at the last, Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or of Ban!