Classic Poem

Still my loved Minstrel I admire
The strains of thy enchanted lyre
Still thy sad lays so wildly sweet
I read—and while I read I weep
Nor do I check the burning tear
For 'tis a silent tribute dear
To Souls like thine which would inspire
Each breast with sympathetic fire
Byron thy noble lofty mind
Has been the sport of passions blind
Phrenzy has havocked in thy brain
With all her desolating train
But that is past—and now you roam
Far from your wife—your child your home
Joys which might still have been your own
But shall I love my Byron less
Because he knows not happiness
Ah no—tho' worlds condemn him now
Though sharp tongued fame has sunk him low
The hapless wanderer still must be
Pitied, revered, adored by me.