Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/385

Rh Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless Pit;

And 's pilfered Caratach affords

A tragedy complete in all but words?

Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage

The degradation of our vaunted stage?

Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone?

Have we no living Bard of merit?—none?

Awake, ! , awake!

Ring the alarum bell! let folly quake!