George Gordon Byron Poems

  • 201.  
    Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
    Patron and publisher of rhymes, For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
  • 202.  
    As o'er the cold sepulchral stone
    Some name arrests the passer-by; Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,
  • 203.  
    'And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant,
    kneeling to receive the paltry rider.'~Curran.
  • 204.  
    In this beloved marble view,
    Above the works and thoughts of man, What Nature could, but would not, do,
  • 205.  
    I
    When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter," And proved it--'twas no matter what he sald:
  • 206.  
    There was a time, I need not name,
    Since it will ne'er forgotten be, When all our feelings were the same
  • 207.  
    LIV

  • 208.  
    The beginning of eternity, the end of time and space,
    The beginning of every end, and the end of every place.
  • 209.  
    Cousin to the Author, and very dear to him
    Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
  • 210.  
    If from great nature's or our own abyss
    Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss--
  • 211.  
    'Tu semper amoris
    Sisd memor, etcari comitis ne abscedat imago'~Val Flac
  • 212.  
    Bright be the place of thy soul!
    No lovelier spirit than thine E'er burst from its mortal control
  • 213.  
    There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
    There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes,
  • 214.  
    Ah! heedless girl! why thus disclose
    What ne'er was meant for other ears: Why thus destroy thine own repose
  • 215.  
    I now mean to be serious;--it is time,
    Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious. A jest at Vice by Virtue's call'd a crime,
  • 216.  
    Francisca walks in the shadow of night,
    But it is not to gaze on the heavenly light - But if she sits in her garden bower,
  • 217.  
    Away with your fictions of flimsy romance;
    Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
  • 218.  
    Chill and mirk is the nightly blast,
    Where Pindus' mountains rise, And angry clouds are pouring fast
  • 219.  
    The town was taken--whether he might yield
    Himself or bastion, little matter'd now: His stubborn valour was no future shield.
  • 220.  
    O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly
    Around us ever, rarely to alight? There's not a meteor in the polar sky
  • 221.  
    Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd,
    Exploring every path of Ida's glade; Whom still affection taught me to defend
  • 222.  
    CLXXVIII.
    There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
  • 223.  
    What matter the pangs of a husband and father,
    If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather,
  • 224.  
    In digging up your bones, Tom Paine,
    Will. Cobbett has done well: You visit him on earth again,
  • 225.  
    I.
    'Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout All countries of the Catholic persuasion,
  • 226.  
    The chain I gave was fair to view,
    The lute I added sweet in sound; The heart that offer'd both was true,
  • 227.  
    When, to their airy hall, my father's voice
    Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice; When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
  • 228.  
    One struggle more, and I am free
    From pangs that rend my heart in twain; One last long sigh to love and thee,
  • 229.  
    She walks in Beauty, like the night
    Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright
  • 230.  
    Since now the hour is come at last,
    When you must quit your anxious lover; Since now our dream of bliss is past,
  • 231.  
    Without a stone to mark the spot,
    And say, what Truth might well have said, By all, save one, perchance forgot,
  • 232.  
    Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
    Friend and associate of this clay! To what unknown region borne,
  • 233.  
    How sweetly shines through azure skies,
    The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore; Where Alva's hoary turrets rise,
  • 234.  
    I.
    Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!-but thou, alas! Didst never yet one mortal song inspire-
  • 235.  
    I would to heaven that I were so much clay,
    As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling - Because at least the past were passed away -
  • 236.  
    LARA. [1]
    CANTO THE FIRST.
  • 237.  
    Oh, Mariamne! now for thee
    The heart of which thou bled'st is bleeding; Revenge is lost in agony,
  • 238.  
    There is a mystic thread of life
    So dearly wreath'd with mine alone, That Destiny's relentless knife
  • 239.  
    Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!
    Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat! Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd!
  • 240.  
    Marion! why that pensive brow?
    What disgust to life hast thou? Change that discontented air;
  • 241.  
    This faint resemblance of thy charms,
    (Though strong as mortal art could give,) My constant heart of fear disarms,
  • 242.  
    Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days,
    Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part; Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
  • 243.  
    Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect,
    Who to woman deny the soul's future existence! Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect,
  • 244.  
    }
    };
  • 245.  
    }
    };
  • 246.  
    }
    };
  • 247.  
    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
  • 248.  
    Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
    A million scarce would quench desire:Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
  • 249.  
    Dear object of defeated care!
    Though now of Love and thee bereft,To reconcile me with despair,
  • 250.  
    Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,
    To those thyself so fondly sought;The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Total 351 poems written by George Gordon Byron

Poem of the day

Evening Angelus
 by Joyce Sutphen

I have forgotten the words,
and therefore I shall not conceive
of a mysterious salvation, I shall
not become a tall lily and bloom
into blue and white. Then what
oracular event shall appear on
my doorstep? What announcement
shall crowd me to a corner,
...

Read complete poem

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