On the Statue of Lord Byron

'Tis strange that I, who haply might have met
Thy living self— who sought to hide the flaws
In thy great fame, and, though I ne'er had set
Eyes on thee, heard thee singing without pause,
And long'd to see thee, should, alas! detect
The Thyrza-sorrow first on sculptured brows,
And know thee best in marble! Fate allows
But this poor intercourse; high and erect
Thou hold'st thy head, whose forward glance beholds
All forms that throng this learned vestibule;
Women and men, and boys and girls from school,
Who gaze with admiration all uncheck'd
On thy proud lips, and garment's moveless folds,
So still, so calm, so purely beautiful!