Byron

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.