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.