George Gordon Noel Byron

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it,
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it,
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

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

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

Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?

Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?

This is the way that physicians mend or end us,
Secundum artem: but although we sneer
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This is the way that physicians mend or end us,
Secundum artem: but although we sneer
In health--when ill, we call them to attend us,
Without the least propensity to jeer.

O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
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O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire, and behold our home!