George Gordon Noel Byron

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.

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom.

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom.

Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din;
Whatever read more

Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din;
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod,
Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the Music breathing from her face,
The read more

The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the Music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,
And, oh! the eye was in itself a Soul!

I can't but say it is an awkward sight
To see one's native land receding through
The read more

I can't but say it is an awkward sight
To see one's native land receding through
The growing waters; it unmans one quite,
Especially when life is rather new.