On the Statue of Lord Byron (continued)

And near thee hangs a page, in boyhood penn'd,
When all thy thoughts were, like thy marble, pure;
When thou hadst none but little faults to mend,
In Lochnagar's cool shadow still secure
From praise or slander; but thy brilliant youth
And manhood soon took tribute of thy kind;
Great artists then thy lineaments design'd,
And, last, the Dane's fine chisel struck the truth;
And, when the current of the breath of fame
Drew up all relics of the master's craft,
This little page, — we know not whence it came, —
Ran flitting forward in the mighty draught,
And, placed at last, where it was fain to be,
Shares our fond gaze between itself and thee.