Lord Byron




To the Countess of Blessington

You has ask'd for a verse; — the request
    In a rhymer ’twere strange to deny;
But my Hippocrene was but my breast, 
   And my feelings ( its fountain ) are dry.

Were I now as I was, I had sung 
   What Lawrence has painted so well;
But the strain would expire on my tongue, 
   And the theme is too soft for my shell.  

I am ashes where once I was fire, 
   And the bard in my bosom is dead;
What I loved I now merely admire, 
   And my heart is as grey as my head.

My life is not dated by years —
   There are moments which act as a plough;
And there is not a furrow appears
   But is deep in my soul as my brow.

Let the young and the brilliant aspire 
   To sing what I gaze on in vain;
For sorrow has torn from my lyre
   The string which was worthy the strain.