Sonnet to Byron

If I esteemed you less, Envy would kill Pleasure, and leave to Wonder and Despair The ministration of the thoughts that fill The mind which, like a worm whose life may share A portion of the unapproachable, Marks your creations rise as fast and fair As perfect worlds at the Creator's will.

But such is my regard that nor your power To soar above the heights where others , Nor fame, that shadow of the unborn hour Cast from the envious future on the time, Move one regret for his unhonoured name Who dares these words:--the worm beneath the sod May lift itself in homage of the God.