He was Childe Harold pacing there
The dark deck of that exile-ship,
When twenty years scarce fringed his lip,
Pacing in a boy's despair.

He was Don Juan, not too soon
Sent from the glimpses of the moon.

And had he lived a little longer,
He would have risen greater, stronger;
King of the Greeks, he had been then
Agamemnon, King of men.
Yet not the best of warriors he
Who crossed towards Troy the Ægean sea.