George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains--Beautiful!
I linger yet with read more
The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains--Beautiful!
I linger yet with Nature, for the night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness
I learn'd the language of another world.
For what were all these country patriots born?
To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
For what were all these country patriots born?
To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
'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.
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.
On the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.
On the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.
'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.
'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.
The music, and the banquet, and the wine--
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers,
The read more
The music, and the banquet, and the wine--
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers,
The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments--
The white arms and the raven hair--the braids,
And bracelets; swan-like bosoms, and the necklace,
An India in itself, yet dazzling not.
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.
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!
