George Gordon Noel Byron

Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch read more

Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears.
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things.

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.

But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws
So much, as when we call our old debts in
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But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws
So much, as when we call our old debts in
At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil,
And find a deuced balance with the devil.

Who track the steps of Glory to the grave.

Who track the steps of Glory to the grave.

I am not now
That which I have been.

I am not now
That which I have been.