George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet.
On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet.
Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto
Wished him five fathom under the Rialto.
Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto
Wished him five fathom under the Rialto.
Come, lay thy head upon my breast,
And I will kiss thee into rest.
Come, lay thy head upon my breast,
And I will kiss thee into rest.
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.
Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!
Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!
And circumstance, that unspiritual god,
And miscreator, makes and helps along
Our coming evils, with a critch-like read more
And circumstance, that unspiritual god,
And miscreator, makes and helps along
Our coming evils, with a critch-like rod,
Whose touch turns hope to dust--the dust we all have trod.
Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill,
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Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill,
The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking--
Kathleen Mavourneen, what, slumbering, still?
Oh hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?
Oh hast thou forgotten this day we must part?
It may be for years and it may be forever;
Oh why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?
That each pull'd different ways with many an oath,
"Arcades ambo," id est--blackguards both.
That each pull'd different ways with many an oath,
"Arcades ambo," id est--blackguards both.
Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes)
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
Until read more
Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes)
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise
Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,
And love than either; and there would arise,
A something in them which was not desire,
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul,
Which struggled through and chansten'd down the whole.
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can read more
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
