The best of prophets of the future is the past. - Lord Byron

Unhappy Dives! in an evil hour
'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst!
Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power;
Wrath's vial on thy lofty head bath burst.
In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first,
How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose!
But thou went smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst
Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close
In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.

Too oft is a smile
But the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation or fear;
Give me a soft sigh,
Whilst the soultelling eye
Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear

For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt,
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.