Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/136

96 While still the visions to my heart are prest,

The voice of Love will murmur in my rest:

I hear—I wake—and in the sound rejoice!

I hear again,—but, ah! no Brother's voice.

A Hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray

Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;

While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,

I cannot call one single blossom mine:

What then remains? in solitude to groan,

To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone?

Thus, must I cling to some endearing hand,

And none more dear, than social band.

! best and dearest of my friends,

Thy name ennobles him, who thus commends:

From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise;

The praise is his, who now that tribute pays.

Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,

If Hope anticipate the words of Truth!

Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,