Byron! to whom the partial Muse has given The grasp of Genius, and the fire of Heaven— Who, like Prometheus, boldly soar'st on high To seize with holier hand the flame of deathless Poesy: Daring as he, who lash'd o'er Heaven's plain His father's steeds — then plung'd amid the main— Thou smil'st to see his boyhood's dazzled eye Quail 'neath the circling blaze of Heaven's own minstrelsy. Whether by mountain's height, or torrent's roar, Thou throw'st thy glance o'er Nature's wildest store, Or on thine own lov'd ocean stemm'st the tide, The wave thy courser, and the storm thy pride,— Oh! how my soul would pant to follow from afar, And snatch from thy bright galaxy one falling star.
