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’Tis in the fatal drooping of the flower,

’Tis in the stubble of the fields and meads,

Where crickets hold a concert day and night,

’Tis in the stormcloud’s shadow and its flight

Across the waters and the sighing reeds,

’Tis in the gold and crimson of the bower.

’Tis in the rain that strikes against the pane

And leaves its diamonds on the bending straw,

’Tis in the mist which follows nightly shower,

A floating mantle of the Morning Hour,

’Tis in the swelling brooks which onward go,

With mystic songs to the majestic main.

And Melancholy is the Truth, said one,

Whose genius pierced through the life of man,

Who hated cant, deriding the Tartuffe,

And saw beneath the robe the devil’s hoof,

A wandering exile from his native land,

The fascinating bard, the great Byron.

Forgive, O, lustrous name, that I should use

Thy music for a lyre so poorly strung!

But I did often in my youth, even now,

Admire the glory of his laurelled brow,

And felt that truth and freedom ne’er was sung,