Of his bright mind; then why do I attempt
Panegyric, (and gain, perhaps, contempt
For my poor self,) when such as Byron write—
Expressive of their pleasure and delight—
In praise of him? ’Tis—that I can’t withhold
My little instrument, which seems so bold
As to presume to dictate to my muse—
“It is a duty! therefore daren’t refuse.”
* * * * *
Gifford—the meek, the mighty, honour’d dead!