Byron! my blood is thine, — its warmest tide Rises when thou directest — proudly flows With the deep current of thy godlike pride, And with thy wild disdain contemptuous grows; Wept when thy soft Italian plaint arose,— But when thy deeptoned song of freedom swells, And off thy spirit all subjection throws, And its own shame to abject Europe tells, Oh how elate with thee my soul entranced dwells!
