How lone this palace is; how grey the walls! No minstrel now wakes echoes in these halls. The broken chain lies rusting on the door, And noisome weeds have split the marble floor:
Here lurks the snake, and here the lizards run By the stone lions blinking in the sun. Byron dwelt here in love and revelry For two long years — a second Anthony,
Who of the world another Actium made! Yet suffered not his royal soul to fade, Or lyre to break, or lance to grow less keen, ‘ Neath any wiles of an Egyptian queen.
For from the East there came a mighty cry, And Greece stood up to fight for Liberty, And called him from Ravenna: never knight Rode forth more nobly to wild scenes of fight!
None fell more bravely on ensanguined field, Borne like a Spartan back upon his shield! O Hellas! Hellas! in thine hour of pride, Thy day of might, remember him who died
To wrest from off thy limbs the trammelling chain: O Salamis! O lone Plataean plain! O tossing waves of wild Euboean sea! O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylae!
He loved you well — ay, not alone in word, Who freely gave to thee his lyre and sword, Like AEschylos at well-fought Marathon: And England, too, shall glory in her son,
Her warrior-poet, first in song and fight. No longer now shall Slander's venomed spite Crawl like a snake across his perfect name, Or mar the lordly scutcheon of his fame.
For as the olive-garland of the race, Which lights with joy each eager runner's face, As the red cross which saveth men in war, As a flame-bearded beacon seen from far
By mariners upon a storm-tossed sea,— Such was his love for Greece and Liberty! Byron, thy crowns are ever fresh and green: Red leaves of rose from Sapphic Mitylene
Shall bind thy brows; the myrtle blooms for thee, In hidden glades by lonely Castaly; The laurels wait thy coming: all are thine, And round thy head one perfect wreath will twine.
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