BY R. M. WALSH.
———
Thou, whose true name the world doth yet not know,
Mysterious spirit, mortal, angel, fiend,
Whate’er thou art, oh! Byron, still I love
Thy concerts’ savage harmony, ev’n as
I love the noise of thunder and of winds
Commingling in the storm with torrents’ voice!
Night is thy dwelling, horror thy domain;
The eagle, king of deserts, thus doth scorn