To Lord Byron

I There was a Roamer,he was deeply sick, Debt to th'immenseness of his gift: He has so power as to be weak, They were so freely as to be not lift. II Thus his fate with bless could not be shift, And the shade of morn colour'd his eyes: Through their source the light was rift, Though their iris were dread dries. III The surroundigs of his bold were gray's, And the centre of his aim unsung; To his hermous grave no one will cries, To his height no stair- could has been rung. IV And Who is He? When he'll be sprung? May someone knows where is his loom? Whose wind will blow his bloodless lung? The immortal strings, the Hand, the strum? V A lightings' path yet cleaves the gloom, And unnamed swarms deeping the leak, Alas! Shall now we fear his mark of doom, While the face of Hope's- becoming lirk? Or is this it, what has been seek?