Category Lord Byron

I Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:   His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,So little trouble had been given of late;   Not that the place by any means was full,But since the Gallic era “eighty-eight”    The Devils had ta’en a…

“The Land where I was born sits by the Seas      Upon that shore to which the Po descends,      With all his followers, in search of peace.Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends,      Seized him for the…

Canto The First. I.     In the beginning was the Word next God;    God was the Word, the Word no less was He:    This was in the beginning, to my mode    Of thinking, and without Him nought could be:    Therefore, just Lord! from out thy…

Many are Poets who have never penned    Their inspiration, and perchance the best:    They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lendTheir thoughts to meaner beings; they compressed    The God within them, and rejoined the stars    Unlaurelled upon earth, but far more blessedThan…

From out the mass of never-dying ill,    The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the Sword,    Vials of wrath but emptied to refillAnd flow again, I cannot all record    That crowds on my prophetic eye: the Earth    And Ocean written o’er would not affordSpace…

The Spirit of the fervent days of Old,    When words were things that came to pass, and Thought    Flashed o’er the future, bidding men beholdTheir children’s children’s doom already brought    Forth from the abyss of Time which is to be,    The Chaos of events,…

Once more in Man’s frail world! which I had left    So long that ’twas forgotten; and I feel    The weight of day again, — too soon bereftOf the Immortal Vision which could heal    My earthly sorrows, and to God’s own skies    Lift me from…

Lady! if for the cold and cloudy clime    Where I was born, but where I would not die,    Of the great Poet-Sire of ItalyI dare to build the imitative rhyme,Harsh Runic copy of the South’s sublime,    Thou art the cause; and howsoever I    Fall…

I. ’TWAS after dread Pultowa’s day,When fortune left the royal Swede,Around a slaughter’d army lay,No more to combat and to bleed.The power and glory of the war,Faithless as their vain votaries, men,Had pass’d to the triumphant Czar,And Moscow’s walls were…

I.Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble wallsAre level with the waters, there shall beA cry of nations o’er thy sunken halls,A loud lament along the sweeping sea!If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,What should thy sons do?—anything but weepAnd…