Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/23

 No longer now shall Slander's venomed spite

Crawl like a snake across his perfect name,

Or mar the lordly scutcheon of his fame.

For as the olive-garland of the race,

Which lights with joy each eager runner's face,

As the red cross which saveth men in war,

As a flame-bearded beacon seen from far

By mariners upon a storm-tossed sea,—

Such was his love for Greece and Liberty!

Byron, thy crowns are ever fresh and green:

Red leaves of rose from Sapphic Mitylene

Shall bind thy brows; the myrtle blooms for thee,

In hidden glades by lonely Castaly;

The laurels wait thy coming: all are thine,

And round thy head one perfect wreath will twine.

The pine-tops rocked before the evening breeze

With the hoarse murmur of the wintry seas,

And the tall stems were streaked with amber bright;—

I wandered through the wood in wild delight,

Some startled bird, with fluttering wings and fleet, 9