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To The Countess of Blessington

Lord Byron


You has ask'd for a verse; --- the request

In a rhymer 't were strange to deny;

But my Hippocrene was but my breast,

And my feelings ( its fountain ) are dry.

Were I now as I was,  I had sung

What Lawrence has painted so well;

But the strain would expire on my tongue,

And the theme is too soft for my shell.

I am ashes where once I was fire,

And the bard in my bosom is dead;

What I loved I now merely admire,

And my heart is as grey as my head.

My life is not dated by years ---

There are moments which act as a plough;

And there is not a furrow appears

But is deep in my soul as my brow.

Let the young and the brilliant aspire

To sing what I gaze on in vain;

For sorrow has torn from my lyre

The string which was worthy the strain.


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