Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/372

330 Dull all his granite weight of leaves:

Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain!

The petrifactions of a plodding brain,

That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again.

With broken lyre and cheek serenely pale,

Lo! sad Alcæus wanders down the vale;

Though fair they rose, and might have bloomed at last,

His hopes have perished by the northern blast:

Nipped in the bud by Caledonian gales,

His blossoms wither as the blast prevails!

O'er his lost works let classic weep;

May no rude hand disturb their early sleep!