George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
But owned that smile, if oft observed and near,
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer.
But owned that smile, if oft observed and near,
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer.
Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease,
He makes a solitude and calls it--peace!
Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease,
He makes a solitude and calls it--peace!
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell--
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,--
read more
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell--
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,--
Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave.
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side.
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side.
Right--that will do for the marines.
Right--that will do for the marines.
Smiles form the channels of a future tear.
Smiles form the channels of a future tear.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
The hearts bleed longest, and but heal to wear
read more
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
The hearts bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it.
A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye
read more
A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown
On a fool's head--and there is London Town.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand;
read more
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand;
I saw from out the wave of her structure's rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles
O'er the far times, when many a subject land
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble pines,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.
Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din;
Whatever read more
Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din;
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod,
Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
