Apostophe To The Memory Of Byron Poem by Peter John Allan

I.
Thou glorious painter of the thoughts that dwell
In the hot brain of genius, it was thine
To live in the delusion of a spell,
To delve into the demon-haunted mine
Of a forbidden region, and to twine
The brightest laurels with the cypress-leaves,
Half turned aside from love and hope divine
By the sharp sting of appetite, that weaves [sheaves
The heartstrings in its pangs, like tares amid the

II.
Byron, whose fame, like ocean, girdles earth-
Byron, unto whose young and passionate eyes
(Now frowning lightnings-sunny now with mirth),
The heaven and earth oped all their mysteries,
Inviting them to answer, and be wise,
Thou hadst a spirit that all boundaries spurned;
Broke, giant-like, from reason's strongest ties,
And for the sceptre of the Eternal burned,
Or in a dreamless sleep for ay to be inurned.

III.
Thy heart was a volcano, which did cast
Its lava forth continually o'er all
The fruitful themes of memory, till at last,
An awe-struck world beheld the poet fall
In ruins, where he stood to disenthrall
The prostrate Greek; but an unwasting tomb
Is thine, O Byron! Honour is thy pall,
A halo fame has shed around thy gloom,
And the most Merciful has fixed thy final doom.

IV.
Men stood aloof from thee, thou matchless man,
As if thou wert a fiend, and thou didst smile
Contemptuously upon the insect clan
That buzz'd its waspish censures round the isle
Where thou didst rise, but never set. The while
Thou hadst the hearts of those who knew thee best-
Beings who did while with thee reconcile
Thy swelling and indignant soul to rest,
If not content with man, thy wrath yet unexpress'd.

V.
But thou, from out affection's fleeting dream,
Arose a dreary being, o'er whose life
Had past experience's light'ning gleam,
Scathing each hope. The sacred name of wife
Had (sharp as the assassin's poison'd knife),
Left memory one 'immedicable wound,'
Which stung thee forth to wage delirious strife
With all thy race, and dare the vast profound
Of speculation rash, where doubt's dread winds abound.

VI.
Thy scornful breathings rolled across the wave,
And echo'd through the world; when thou didst laugh,
That laugh was like the hollow storms that rave
Amid the mountains, and thy pilgrim's staff
Was an enchanter's wand, and thou didst quaff
Thy inspiration from the tempest's cup,
Looking on men's opinions as the chaff
Of virtue, truth, and reason, which are garner'd up
In few and lofty minds, as snows on Hecla's top.

VII.
Yet as thou stoodst beneath the Eternal's eye,
At eve's soft hour, when all things are serene,
Save mortals' sleepless immortality,
That strives to pierce the heaven, its proper scene,
Even as the eagle bends his vision keen
Upon the sun; then, in that silent hour,
Religion must have sealed thy noble mien,
And spoken in thy soul with voice of power;
Thou didst not fade for ay, so beautiful a flower.

VIII.
Thy heart, if not thy harp, was sanctified,
That captive heart from earthliness redeem'd;
For there was madness in thy spirit's pride-
Madness, that spake the doubts which it had dream'd.
Ere now, perchance, upon thine eye hath beam'd
Celestial visions, which have made thee see
How false were those on earth who round thee gleam'd.
Man must not judge-so silent let me be; [thee.
The world was still thy foe; may Heaven be kind to.