Lord Byron

George Lunt, in The Grave of Byron (1826) 47.

Farewell to thee! once more a sad farewell!
Thy spirit will forgive me, if in vain
I tired the Muses in their mossy cell
With uncouth invocations for thy strain
Was as my very food, and in my brain
Thy verse wrought like the fire which thou didst blend
With thine own melancholy page; — in pain,
Sickness, and sorrow, did that page attend
Nor left me solitary, for it was my friend.

It was the very nurse of my young dreams,—
From desolation my sick heart it stole,—
It lit my pining bosom, till it teems
With full thanks overflowing; — Time may roll
O'er me his wintry years, but no control
Nor time's chill touch severe, nor the world's frown
Can rase those written tablets of my soul;—
And is it thus Fame does her votaries crown,
I turn and weep those tears I cannot wrestle down.