George Gordon Noel Byron

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

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.

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.

For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail,
Where'er the surge read more

For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail,
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.