Lord Byron

There be none of Beauty’s daughters With a magic like Thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmйd ocean’s pausing,

LARA. [1] CANTO THE FIRST. I. The Serfs are glad through Lara’s wide domain, [2] And slavery half forgets her feudal chain; He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord – The long self-exiled chieftain is

Parent of golden dreams, Romance! Auspicious Queen of childish joys, Who lead’st along, in airy dance, Thy votive train of girls and boys; At length, in spells no longer bound, I break the fetters

Whene’er I view those lips of thine, Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet, I forego that bliss divine, Alas! it were – unhallow’d bliss. Whene’er I dream of that pure breast, How could

Thou whose spell can raise the dead, Bid the prophet’s form appear. “Samuel, raise thy buried head! “King, behold the phantom seer!” Earth yawn’d; he stood the centre of a cloud: Light changed its

Why, Pigot, complain of this damsel’s disdain, Why thus in despair do you fret? For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh Will never obtain a coquette. Would you teach her to

‘Twas after dread Pultowa’s day, When fortune left the royal Swede – Around a slaughtered army lay, No more to combat and to bleed. The power and glory of the war, Faithless as their

THERE be none of Beauty’s daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean’s pausing,

Titan! to whose immortal eyes The sufferings of mortality, Seen in their sad reality, Were not as things that gods despise; What was thy pity’s recompense? A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the

O! had my Fate been join’d with thine, As once this pledge appear’d a token, These follies had not, then, been mine, For, then, my peace had not been broken. To thee, these early

Who killed John Keats? ‘I,’ says the Quarterly, So savage and Tartarly; ”Twas one of my feats.’ Who shot the arrow? ‘The poet-priest Milman (So ready to kill man), Or Southey or Barrow.’

There is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreath’d with mine alone, That Destiny’s relentless knife At once must sever both, or none. There is a Form on which these eyes Have fondly

Remember him, whom Passion’s power Severely – deeply – vainly proved: Remember thou that dangerous hour, When neither fell, though both were loved. That yielding breast, that melting eye, Too much invited to be

And thou art dead, as young and fair As aught of mortal birth; And form so soft, and charms so rare, Too soon return’d to Earth! Though Earth receiv’d them in her bed, And

ADVERTISEMENT “The grand army of the Turks, (in 1715), under the Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di Romania,

‘Tis done – and shivering in the gale The bark unfurls her snowy sail; And whistling o’er the bending mast, Loud sings on high the fresh’ning blast; And I must from this land be

I stood beside the grave of him who blazed The comet of a season, and I saw The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed With not the less of sorrow and of awe On

So we’ll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart still be as loving, And the moon still be as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul

Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, Heed not the corse, though a king’s in your path: Bury your steel in the bosoms

Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, Who to woman deny the soul’s future existence! Could they see thee, Eliza, they’d own their defect, And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance. Had

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue

There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away When the glow of early thought declines in feeling’s dull decay; ‘Tis not on youth’s smooth cheek the blush alone, which

My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here’s a double health to thee! Here’s a sigh to those who love me, And

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light

I would I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild, Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride Accords not

Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those I loved, thy soft and verdant

I ‘Tis done but yesterday a King! And arm’d with Kings to strive And now thou art a nameless thing: So abject yet alive! Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strew’d our

The roses of Love glad the garden of life, Though nurtur’d ‘mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, Or prunes them for ever, in Love’s last adieu! In

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus Sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But

My sister! my sweet sister! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine; Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: Go where I

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion! may thy languid wing Wave gently o’er my dying bed! No band of friends or heirs be there,

There be none of Beauty’s daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean’s pausing,

“Had we never loved so kindly, Had we never loved so blindly, Never met or never parted, We had ne’er been broken-hearted.” – Burns TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED,

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name; There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame; But the tear that now burns on my cheek may impart

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, And health and youth possessed me; My goblets blushed from every vine, And lovely forms caressed me; I sunned my heart in beauty’ eyes, And felt my

I saw thee weep – the big bright tear Came o’er that eye of blue; And then methought it did appear A violet dropping dew: I saw thee smile – the sapphire’s blaze Beside

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov’d recollection Embitters the present, compar’d with the past; Where science first dawn’d on the powers of reflection, And friendships were form’d, too romantic to last; Where fancy,

There was a time, I need not name, Since it will ne’er forgotten be, When all our feelings were the same As still my soul hath been to thee. And from that hour when

Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy’s days, Young offspring of Fancy, ’tis time we should part; Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, The coldest effusion which springs

This faint resemblance of thy charms, (Though strong as mortal art could give,) My constant heart of fear disarms, Revives my hopes, and bids me live. Here, I can trace the locks of gold

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder

SO, we’ll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul