George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah hath triumphed--his people are free.
- Lord read more
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah hath triumphed--his people are free.
- Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron),
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so
fast,
But the tender bloom of read more
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so
fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
read more
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need
Of aid from them--she was the Universe.
His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven,
His back to earth, his face to heaven.
His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven,
His back to earth, his face to heaven.
A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,
Condemn'd to drudge, the read more
A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean,
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine.
What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some read more
What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour:
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper,"
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No,"
And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing
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Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No,"
And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing
On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow,
Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.
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!
From thy own smile I snatched the snake.
From thy own smile I snatched the snake.
