George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
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.
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.
There is a tear for all who die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave.
- Lord read more
There is a tear for all who die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave.
- Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron),
From thy own smile I snatched the snake.
From thy own smile I snatched the snake.
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
read more
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madded to crime?
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,
All ashes to the taste.
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,
All ashes to the taste.
Till taught by pain,
Men really know not what good water's worth;
If you had been in read more
Till taught by pain,
Men really know not what good water's worth;
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,
Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth,
Or in the desert heard the camel's bell,
You'd wish yourself where Truth is--in a well.
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea:
But, before I go, read more
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea:
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
No hollow read more
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive.
