George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
Endearing Waltz--to thy more melting tune
Bow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon.
Scotch reels, avaunt! and country-dance read more
Endearing Waltz--to thy more melting tune
Bow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon.
Scotch reels, avaunt! and country-dance forego
Your future claims to each fantastic toe!
Waltz--Waltz alone--both legs and arms demands,
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands.
For talk six times with the same single lady,
And you may get the wedding dress ready.
For talk six times with the same single lady,
And you may get the wedding dress ready.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past--
For years fleet away with the wings of the read more
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past--
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove--
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
And circumstance, that unspiritual god,
And miscreator, makes and helps along
Our coming evils, with a critch-like read more
And circumstance, that unspiritual god,
And miscreator, makes and helps along
Our coming evils, with a critch-like rod,
Whose touch turns hope to dust--the dust we all have trod.
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
And wrinkles, the d--d democrats, won't flatter.
And wrinkles, the d--d democrats, won't flatter.
What gem hath dropp'd, and sparkles o'er his chain?
The tear most sacred, shed for other's pain,
read more
What gem hath dropp'd, and sparkles o'er his chain?
The tear most sacred, shed for other's pain,
That starts at once--bright pure--from Pity's mine,
Already polish'd by the hand divine!
That all-softening, overpowering knell,
The tocsin of the soul--the dinner bell.
That all-softening, overpowering knell,
The tocsin of the soul--the dinner bell.
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can read more
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
In Venice, Tass's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling read more
In Venice, Tass's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear.
