Lord Byron

Richard Hatt, "Elegy on the Death of Lord Byron" The Literary Chronicle 6 (22 May 1824) 333.

Hang your harps o'er the waters to weep,
The sweetest of poets is dead!
He slumbers in death's silent sleep,
And the cypress waves over his head!
Drop, ye willows, your pearls o'er his tomb,
All nature in sadness appear;
Let the moon be enveloped in gloom,
And its halo be dimm'd with a tear!

The bard who so late strung his lyre
The cold urn shall wrap in its breast;
That bosom which love did inspire,
Eternity points to its rest!
No more the sweet maidens of Greece,
Enraptured, shall dwell on his name;
The harp, with its master's at peace,
And lost its Promethean flame!

No friend of his youth clos'd his eyes,
Nor soften'd his pillow of care;
No wife mingled tears with his sighs,
Nor child of his bosom was there!
That heart which for liberty breath'd,
Lies embalm'd in the land of the brave;
Whose sword shall never be sheath'd,
'Till it vanquish the coward and slave!
16th May.