Lord Byron

Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.

When all of genius which can perish dies.

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

So gleams the past, the light of other days, Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

He left a corsair's name to other times, Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.

No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.

Farewell! For in that word, that fatal word,—howe'er We promise, hope, believe,—there breathes despair.

Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed farewell!

There was a laughing devil in his sneer.

Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one!

The power of thought,—the magic of the mind!

She walks the waters like a thing of life, And seems to dare the elements to strife.

O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 22 Survey our empire, and behold our home! These are our realms, no limit to their sway,— Our flag …

Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.

The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.

She was a form of life and light That seen, became a part of sight, And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, The morning-star of memory! Yes, love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire

I die — but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.

The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name.

Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock.

The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.

And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, And every woe a tear can claim Except an erring sister's shame.