Lord Byron

Fare thee well, much injured Byron!
Driven from thy native shore;
Ev'ry heart, save hearts of iron,
Deep must thy sad fate deplore.

Who unmov'd could hear those numbers
Tun'd to her thy soul ador'd?
Ev'n in breasts where pity slumbers
They might strike a tender chord.

Can she, then, the cause of anguish,
She whose virtues all excel,—
Can she suffer thee to languish,
Nor her dire resentment quell?

Will she let thee, broken-hearted,
Wander on a foreign shore?
From each valued friend departed,
Love and friendship known no more!

None to rouse thy soul-fix'd sadness,—
None to watch thy fev'rish rest,
Soothe the thought that groans to madness
In thy too high-swelling breast!

No — a woman's bosom tender
Cannot bear so stern a part;
Soon her anger will surrender—
Soon she'll fold thee to her heart.