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Lord Byron

Lord Byron

Epigram

In digging up your bones, Tom Paine,
Will. Cobbett has done well:
You visit him on earth again,
He’ll visit you in hell.

#English #Romanticism #XIXCentury

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To a Vain Lady

Ah! heedless girl! why thus disclo… What ne’er was meant for other ear… Why thus destroy thine own repose And dig the source of future tears… Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid…
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Lines Addressed to a Young Lady

Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing… Wafting destruction o’er thy charm… And hurtling o’er thy lovely head, Has fill’d that breast with fond a… Surely some envious demon’s force,
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If Sometimes in the Haunts of Men

If sometimes in the haunts of men Thine image from my breast may fad… The lonely hour presents again The semblance of thy gentle shade: And now that sad and silent hour
Stanzas to a Hindoo Air

Oh! my lonely—lonely—lonely—Pillo… Where is my lover? where is my lov… Is it his bark which my dreary dre… Far—far away! and alone along the… Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pil­l…
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On Parting

The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has l… Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gif… Untainted back to thine. Thy parting glance, which fondly b…
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To Caroline: Oh When Shall the Grave Hide

Oh when shall the grave hide for e… Oh when shall my soul wing her fli… The present is hell, and the comin… But brings, with new torture, the… From my eye flows no tear, from my…
To D

In thee I fondly hoped to clasp A friend whom death alone could se… Till envy, with malignant grasp, Detach’d thee from my breast for e… True, she has forced thee from my…
On the Star of 'The Legion of Honour’ (From the French)

Star of the brave!—whose beam hath… Such glory o’er the quick and dead… Thou radiant and adored deceit! Which millions rush’d in arms to g… Wild meteor of immortal birth;
To a Lady Who Presented to the Author a Lock of Hair Braided With His Own, and Appointed a Night in December to Meet Him in the Garden

These locks, which fondly thus ent… In firmer chains our hearts confin… Than all th’ unmeaning protestatio… Which swell with nonsense, love or… Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve…
My Soul Is Dark

My soul is dark - Oh! quickly str… The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear,
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Lines, on Hearing That Lady Byron Was Ill

And thou wert sad—yet I was not w… And thou wert sick, and yet I was… Methought that joy and health alon… Where I was not—and pain and sorr… And is it thus?—it is as I foreto…
Vision of Belshazzar

The King was on his throne, The Satraps throng’d the hall: A thousand bright lamps shone O’er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold,
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There Be None of Beauty’s Daughters

There be none of Beauty’s daughte… With a magic like Thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing
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Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto IV.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge… A palace and a prison on each hand… I saw from out the wave her struct… As from the stroke of the enchante… A thousand years their cloudy wing…
Stanzas Composed During a Thunderstorm

Chill and mirk is the nightly blas… Where Pindus’ mountains rise, And angry clouds are pouring fast The vengeance of the skies. Our guides are gone, our hope is l…
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