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Lord Byron
October, 1806


No specious splendour of this stone,

Endears it to my memory ever;

With lustre only once  it shone,

and blushes modest as the giver.

Some who can sneer of friendship's ties,

Have for my weakness oft reprov'd me,

Yet still the simple gift I prize,

For I am sure, the giver lov'd me.

He offer'd it with downcast look,

As fearful  that I might refuse it,

I told him when the gift I took,

My only fear  should be to lose it.

This pledge attentively I view'd,

And sparkling as I held it near,

Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,

And ever since I've lov'd a tear.

Still to adorn his humble youth,

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield,

But he who seeks the flowers of truth,

Must quit the garden for the field.

'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,

Which beauty shews, and sheds perfume;

The flowers which yield the most of both

In nature's wild luxuriance bloom.

Had Fortune aided Nature's care,

For once forgetting to be blind,

His would have been an ample share,

If well proportioned to his mind.

But had the Goddess clearly seen,

His form had fixed her fickle breast,

Her countless hoards would his have been,

And none remain'd to give the rest.


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