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Lord Byron

Lord Byron

Epitaph

Posterity will ne’er survey
A nobler grave than this:
Here lie the bones of Castlereagh:
Stop, traveler—

#EnglishWriters #Romantic

Other works by Lord Byron...
A Fragment

When, to their airy hall, my fathe… Shall call my spirit, joyful in th… When, poised upon the gale, my for… Or, dark in mist, descend the moun… Oh! may my shade behold no sculptu…
 1
A Sketch

Born in the garret, in the kitchen… Promoted thence to deck her mistre… Next for some gracious service une… And from its wages only to be gues… Raised from the toilette to the ta…
All Is Vanity, Saieth the Preacher

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were… And health and youth possess’d me; My goblets blush’d from every vine… And lovely forms caress’d me; I sunn’d my heart in beauty’s eyes…
Answer to Some Elegant Verses Sent by a Friend to the Author, Complaining That One of His Descriptions Was Rather Too Warmly Drawn

‘But if any old lady, knight, prie… Should condemn me for printing a s… If good Madam Squintum my work sh… May I venture to give her a smack… CANDOUR compels me, BECHER!…
Lines, on Hearing That Lady Byron Was Ill

And thou wert sad—yet I was not w… And thou wert sick, and yet I was… Methought that joy and health alon… Where I was not—and pain and sorr… And is it thus?—it is as I foreto…
Stanzas to the Po

River, that rollest by the ancient… Where dwells the Lady of my love,… Walks by thy brink, and there perc… A faint and fleeting memory of me: What if thy deep and ample stream…
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto I.

To Ianthe: Not in those climes where I have… Though Beauty long hath there bee… Not in those visions to the heart… Forms which it sighs but to have o…
Stanzas

Could Love for ever Run like a river, And Time’s endeavour Be tried in vain ­ No other pleasure
Lines to Mr. Hodgson Written on Board the Lisbon Packet

Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo’s off at last; Favourable breezes blowing Bend the canvass o’er the mast. From aloft the signal’s streaming,
If That High World

If that high world, which lies bey… Our own, surviving Love endears; If there the cherish’d heart be fo… The eye the same, except in tears… How welcome those untrodden sphere…
Stanzas to a Lady, on Leaving England

'Tis done——and shivering in the ga… The bark unfurls her snowy sail; And whistling o’er the bending mas… Loud sings on high the fresh’ning… And I must from this land be gone…
 1
To the Author of a Sonnet, Beginning, '

Thy verse is 'sad’ enough, no doub… A devilish deal more sad than witt… Why we should weep I can’t find o… Unless for thee we weep in pity. Yet there is one I pity more;
 1
Lines to a Lady Weeping

Weep, daughter of a royal line, A Sire’s disgrace, a realm’s deca… Ah! happy if each tear of thine Could wash a father’s fault away! Weep—for thy tears are Virtue’s t…
To a Lady, Who Presented the Author With the Velvet Band Which Bound Her Tresses

This Band, which bound thy yellow… Is mine, sweet girl! Thy pledge o… It claims my warmest, dearest care… Like relics left of saints above. Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
Stanzas to Augusta

Though the day of my destiny’s ove… And the star of my fate hath decli… Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could fin… Though thy soul with my grief was…



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