George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
And when Rome falls--the World.
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
And when Rome falls--the World.
She bears her down majestically near,
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier.
She bears her down majestically near,
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier.
Brave men are all vertebrates; they have their softness on the
surface and their toughness in the middle.
Brave men are all vertebrates; they have their softness on the
surface and their toughness in the middle.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
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But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.
The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice,
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice,
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
From the mingled strength of shade and light
A new creation rises to my sight,
Such heav'nly read more
From the mingled strength of shade and light
A new creation rises to my sight,
Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with light his blended colors glow.
. . . .
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring.
The castled crag of Drachenfels,
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly read more
The castled crag of Drachenfels,
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine.
A thirst for gold,
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm
The meanest hearts.
A thirst for gold,
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm
The meanest hearts.
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
I planted--they have torn me--and I bleed!
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The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
I planted--they have torn me--and I bleed!
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
For everything seemed resting on his nod,
As they could read in all eyes. Now to them,
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For everything seemed resting on his nod,
As they could read in all eyes. Now to them,
Who were accustomed, as a sort of god,
To see the sultan, rich in many a gem,
Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad
(That royal bird, whose tail's a diadem,)
With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt
How power could condescend to do without.
