had pass’d
    Since last we parted; and those five short years—­
    Much had they told!  His clustering locks were turn’d
    Grey; nor did aught recall the youth that swam
    From Sestos to Abydos.  Yet his voice,
    Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought
    Flash’d lightning-like, nor lingered on the way,
    Waiting for words.  Far, far into the night
    We sat, conversing—­no unwelcome hour,
    The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose,
    Rising, we climb’d the rugged Apennine. 
      “Well I remember how the golden sun
    Fill’d with its beams the unfathomable gulfs
    As on we travell’d, and along the ridge,
    ’Mid groves of cork, and cistus, and wild fig,
    His motley household came.—­Not last nor least,
    Battista, who upon the moonlight-sea
    Of Venice had so ably, zealously
    Served, and at parting, thrown his oar away
    To follow through the world; who without stain
    Had worn so long that honourable badge[63],
    The gondolier’s, in a Patrician House
    Arguing unlimited trust.—­Not last nor least,
    Thou, though declining in thy beauty and strength,
    Faithful Moretto, to the latest hour
    Guarding his chamber-door, and now along
    The silent, sullen strand of MISSOLONGHI
    Howling in grief. 
                      “He had just left that Place
    Of old renown, once in the ADRIAN sea[64],
    RAVENNA; where from DANTE’S sacred tomb
    He had so oft, as many a verse declares[65],
    Drawn inspiration; where at twilight-time,
    Through the pine-forest wandering with loose rein,
    Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld[66]
    (What is not visible to a poet’s eye?)
    The spectre-knight, the hell-hounds, and their prey,
    The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth
    Suddenly blasted.  ’Twas a theme he loved,
    But others claim’d their turn; and many a tower,
    Shatter’d uprooted from its native rock,
    Its strength the pride of some heroic age,
    Appear’d and vanish’d (many a sturdy steer[67]
    Yoked and unyoked), while, as in happier days,
    He pour’d his spirit forth.  The past forgot,
    All was enjoyment.  Not a cloud obscured
    Present or future. 
                       “He is now at rest;
    And praise and blame fall on his ear alike,
    Now dull in death.  Yes, BYRON, thou art gone,
    Gone like a star that through the firmament
    Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course
    Dazzling, perplexing.  Yet thy heart, methinks,
    Was generous, noble—­noble in its scorn
    Of all things low or little; nothing there
    Sordid or servile.  If imagined wrongs
    Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do
    Things long regretted, oft, as many know,
    None more than I, thy gratitude would build
    On slight foundations: