His faults were great, his virtues less, His mind a burning lamp of Heaven; His talents were bestowed to bless, But were as vainly lost as given. His was a harp of heavenly sound, The numbers wild, and bold, and clear; But ah! some demon, hovering round, Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear. His was a mind of giant mould, Which grasped at all beneath the skies; And his, a heart, so icy cold, That virtue in its recess dies. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STRAPLESS by KAREN SWENSON NURSE'S SONG, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN by SAMUEL FERGUSON THE HOCK-CART, OR HARVEST HOME by ROBERT HERRICK ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER by BEN JONSON |