Thou wert the poet-laureate of Despair,
And much I mourned o'er thy unhappy fate,
Which in its toils so cruelly did snare
Thy soul, by death and grief made desolate:
But now that more than twenty years have passed
No longer does the thought of thee bring pain,
For that same fate that so thy life did blast,
Is now thy friend and shall thy friend remain.
Time to a precious pearl hath turned thy woe,
Britain at length shall glory in thy name,
Thy fame shall ever with the ages grow,
And none shall censure thee but to their shame;
Not Omar's—or FitzGerald's—name shall shine
More brightly in the years to come than thine!