Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/404

362 Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire,

And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre;

Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,

Assert thy country's honour and thine own.

What! must deserted Poesy still weep

Where her last hopes with pious sleep?

Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns,

To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, !

No! though contempt hath marked the spurious brood,

The race who rhyme from folly, or for food,

Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast,

Who, least affecting, still affect the most:

Feel as they write, and write but as they feel—

Bear witness, ,.