George Gordon Noel Byron

Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo,
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!

Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo,
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!

Hope, withering, fled--and Mercy sighed farewell.

Hope, withering, fled--and Mercy sighed farewell.

Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din;
Whatever read more

Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din;
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod,
Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

'Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch,
For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch.

'Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch,
For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch.

Whatsoe'er thy birth,
Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.

Whatsoe'er thy birth,
Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.