George Gordon Noel Byron

Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honour'd race.

Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honour'd race.

And her face so fair
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.

And her face so fair
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.

And be the Spartan's epitaph on me--
"Sparta hath many a worthier son than he."

And be the Spartan's epitaph on me--
"Sparta hath many a worthier son than he."

Brave men were living before Agamemnon.

Brave men were living before Agamemnon.

How lovely he appears! his little cheeks
In their pure incarnation, vying with
The rose leaves strewn read more

How lovely he appears! his little cheeks
In their pure incarnation, vying with
The rose leaves strewn beneath them.
And his lips, too,
How beautifully parted! No; you shall not
Kiss him; at least not now; he will wake soon--
His hour of midday rest is nearly over.