George Gordon Noel Byron

Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel.

Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel.

Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried?

Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried?

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can read more

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

He left a Corsair's name to other times,
Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.

He left a Corsair's name to other times,
Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.

That all-softening, overpowering knell,
The tocsin of the soul--the dinner bell.

That all-softening, overpowering knell,
The tocsin of the soul--the dinner bell.