George Gordon Noel Byron

There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's read more

There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,
Condemn'd to drudge, the read more

A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean,
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine.

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!

Thou who hast
The fatal gist of beauty.

Thou who hast
The fatal gist of beauty.

The truly brave,
When they behold the brave oppressed with odds,
Are touched with a desire to read more

The truly brave,
When they behold the brave oppressed with odds,
Are touched with a desire to shield and save:--
A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods
Are they--now furious as the sweeping wave,
Now moved with pity; even as sometimes nods
The rugged tree unto the summer wind,
Compassion breathes along the savage mind.