What else can joy be, but the spreading joy? - Lord Byron

I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, The age discovers he is not the true one;

But first, on earth as vampire sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent,
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race.

There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life,
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse.

Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.

The World, which at the worst’s a glorious blunder — If it be Chance; or if it be according
To the old Text, still better: — lest it should
Turn out so, we’ll say nothing ’gainst the wording,
As several people think such hazards rude.
They’re right; our days are too brief for affording
Space to dispute what no one ever could
Decide, and every body one day will
Know very clearly — or at least lie still.