Thou, Byron, like this brigand of the air, In cries of woe dost sweetest music find. Thy scene is evil, and thy victim man. Like Satan, thou hast measured the abyss, And plunging down, far, far from day and God, Hast bid to hope farewell for evermore! Like him, now reigning in the realms of gloom, Thy dauntless genius swells funereal strains; It triumphs; and thy voice in hellish tone Sings hymns of glory to the god of evil. But why against thy destiny contend? ’Gainst fate what may rebellious reason do? It hath but (like the eye) a bounded scope. Beyond it nor thy eye nor reason strain; There all escapes us; all is dark, unknown. Within this circle God hath marked thy place. How? why? who knows?—From His Almighty hands The world and human beings he hath dropped, As in our fields he spread around the dust, Or sowed the atmosphere with might or light. He knows; enough; the universe is his, And we can only claim the present day. Our crime is to be man and wish to know: To serve and know not is our being’s law. Byron, this truth is hard, and long I strove Against it; but why turn away from truth? With God, thy title is to be his work; To feel, t’adore thy slavery divine; In th’universal order to unite, Weak atom as thou art, to his designs Thy own free will; by his intelligence To have been conceived, and by thy life alone To glorify him—such, such is thy lot! Ah! rather kiss the yoke that thou wouldst break; Descend from thy usurped rank of god; All, in its place, is well, is good, is great; In His regard, who made immensity, The worm is worth a world; they cost the same!