George Gordon Noel Byron

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.

For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.

For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.

Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,
All ashes to the taste.

Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,
All ashes to the taste.

And angling too, that solitary vice,
What Izaak Walton sings or says:
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, read more

And angling too, that solitary vice,
What Izaak Walton sings or says:
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

Hark! to the hurried question of Despair
"Where is my child?"--An echo answers--
"Where?"

Hark! to the hurried question of Despair
"Where is my child?"--An echo answers--
"Where?"