Lord Byron

Thomas Stott, "Ode to Lord Byron, on reading his Farewell to England" Morning Post (9 November 1816).

Prolific Bard, whose Muse so well
Can tune the sympathetic shell,
And bid the answering bosom swell
With grief or joy,
Alas! that e'er misfortune fell,
Should thine annoy!

Thy sad FAREWELL to Britain's shore—
Those lays that Love's offence deplore,
Even from the marble's flinty core
A sigh might force—
But wounded Pride, acutely sore,
Feels no remorse!

Distinguish'd Lyrist! nought avail
The strains that sweetly thus bewail
The secret cause of that "sad tale,"
Whate'er it be—
Thy fragile bark a fatal gale
Hath caught at sea!

Yes, in a sea of peril tost,
Its rudder gone — its anchor lost—
'Tis driven upon a foreign coast,
In woful plight,
No star to guide, when needed most—
No beacon-light!

Contrition in her humblest guise—
Affection's plea — nor Sorrow's sighs,
Can soothe the ruthless blasts that rise,
And round thee rave—
But dire Despair, while faint Hope flies,
Points to the grave!

Then fare thee well, unhappy Bard!
On whom the Muse's high regard
Conferr'd distinctive bright reward—
Undying fame;
Altho' by faults an frailties marr'd,
And specks of shame.

Once more, unhappy Bard, farewell!
Tho' Time "thy wrongs" should never tell—
"Echoed from mountain and from dell,"
Thy pensive lays
Upon the moaning breeze shall swell
Of distant days.