Substitute for an Epitaph, di Lord Byron

Lord Byron

Substitute for an Epitaph

Kind Reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;

Here HAROLD lies, but where’s his Epitaph?

If such you seek, try Westminster, and view

Ten thousand just as fit for him as you.

Athens

#English #Romanticism #XIXCentury

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Altre opere di Lord Byron...

To a Vain Lady

Ah! heedless girl! why thus disclo… What ne’er was meant for other ear… Why thus destroy thine own repose And dig the source of future tears… Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid…

Condolatory Address to Sarah, Countess of Jersey, on the Prince Regent’s Returning Her Picture to Mrs. Mee

When the vain triumph of the imper… Whom servile Rome obey’d, and yet… Gave to the vulgar gaze each glori… That left a likeness of the brave… What most admired each scrutinisin…

Lines Addressed to the Rev. J. T. Becher, on His Advising the Author to Mix More With Society

Dear Becher, you tell me to mix w… I cannot deny such a precept is wi… But retirement accords with the to… I will not descend to a world I d… Did the senate or camp my exertion…

My Soul Is Dark

My soul is dark - Oh! quickly str… The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear,

Epigram: The World Is a Bundle of Hay

The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses who pull; Each tugs it a different way, And the greatest of all is John B…

Love's Last Adieu

The roses of Love glad the garden… Though nurtur’d 'mid weeds droppin… Till Time crops the leaves with u… Or prunes them for ever, in Love’… In vain, with endearments, we soot…

Don Juan: Canto the Seventh

O Love! O Glory! what are ye who… Around us ever, rarely to alight? There’s not a meteor in the polar… Of such transcendent and more flee… Chill, and chain’d to cold earth,…

Epitaph on John Adams, of Southwell

JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the p… A Carrier who carried his can to… He carried so much, and he carried… He could carry no more‑so was carr… For, the liquor he drank, being to…

Lines Written Beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow on the Hill, Sept. 2, 1807

Spot of my youth! whose hoary bran… Swept by the breeze that fans thy… Where now alone I muse, who oft h… With those I loved, thy soft and… With those who, scattered far, per…

Epitaph for Joseph Blackett, Late Poet and Shoemaker

Stranger! behold, interr’d togethe… The souls of learning and of leath… Poor Joe is gone, but left his al… You’ll find his relics in a stall. His works were neat, and often fou…

To Woman

Woman! experience might have told… That all must love thee who behold… Surely experience might have taugh… Thy firmest promises are nought: But, placed in all thy charms befo…

The Vampyre (An extract from the Giaour)

But first, on earth as vampire sen… Thy corse shall from its tomb be r… Then ghastly haunt thy native plac… And suck the blood of all thy race… There from thy daughter, sister, w…

TO D—

In thee I fondly hoped to clasp A friend whom death alone could se… Till envy, with malignant grasp, Detach’d thee from my breast for e… True, she has forced thee from my…

Martial, Lib. I, Epig. I.

‘Hic est, quem legis, ille, quern… He unto whom thou art so partial, Oh, reader is the well-known Mart… The Epigrammatist: while living, Give him the fame thou wouldst be…

To a Lady Who Presented to the Author a Lock of Hair Braided With His Own, and Appointed a Night in December to Meet Him in the Garden

These locks, which fondly thus ent… In firmer chains our hearts confin… Than all th’ unmeaning protestatio… Which swell with nonsense, love or… Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve…

Lord Byron