Fair image of thy Sire! should chance e'er lead Thy dawning int'llect o'er these lays of mine, Turn not away, because their only meed The colour they first caught from His and thine,— But leave the little world, and learn Childe Harold's line.
"ADA, sole daughter of my House and heart," ADA! 'twas thus thy Noble Father sung; "ADA" — why should that simple name impart Such sacred impulse to a harp unstrung? Which o'er this page perchance an idle strain hath flung.
ADA! He was a wand'rer from the land Which gave him birth, who then addressed thee, Outworn the feelings, and o'erstrain'd the hand That held too much of others' misery;— When shall the world again such man as BYRON see?
Weep! weep fair Child! though all have cause for tears, A speechless agony must parch thy tongue,— Thou wert a joy, to which thro' bitter years Unchang'd and numberless his blessings clung,— Last of his race! thy name his latest accents rung.
