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George Gordon Byron - The Cornelian
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No specious splendour of this stone
   Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre only once it shone,
   And blushes modest as the giver.

Some, who can sneer at friendship`s ties,
   Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,-
   For I am sure the giver loved me.

He offer`d it with downcast look,
   As fearful that I ,ight refuse it;
I told him when the gift I took,
   My only fear should be to lose it.

This pledge attentively I view`d,
   And sparkling as I held it near,
Methought one drop the stone bedew`d,
   And ever since I`ve loved a tear.

Still, to adorn his humble youth,
   Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield;
But he who seeks the flowers of truth,
   Must quit the garden for the field.

`Tis not the plant uprear`d in sloth,
   Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume;
The flowers which yield the most of both
   In Nature`s wild luxuriance bloom.

Had Fortune aided Nature`s care,
   For once forgetting to be blind,
His would have been an ample share,
   If well proportion`d to his mind.

But had the goddess clearly seen,
   His form had fix`d her fickle breast;
Her countless hoards would his have been,
   And none remain`d to give the rest.
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