George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
They never fail who die
In a great cause.
They never fail who die
In a great cause.
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?
I am not now
That which I have been.
I am not now
That which I have been.
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!
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They read more
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They have a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being.
That famish'd people must be slowly nurst,
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
That famish'd people must be slowly nurst,
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless chimes and starry skies;
And all that's best read more
She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless chimes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.
Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious,
Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.
Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious,
Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.
A man must serve his time to every trade
Save censure--critics all are ready made.
Take hackney'd read more
A man must serve his time to every trade
Save censure--critics all are ready made.
Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault;
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet;
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling--pass your proper jest,
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd.
