George Gordon Noel Byron

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

A mere court butterfly,
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch.

A mere court butterfly,
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch.

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind.

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can read more

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.