Lord Byron quotes - page 16
It is by far the most elegant worship, hardly excepting the Greek mythology. What with incense, pictures, statues, altars, shrines, relics, and the real presence, confession, absolution, -- there is something sensible to grasp at. Besides, it leaves no possibility of doubt for those who swallow their Deity, really and truly, in transubstantiation, can hardly find any thing else otherwise than easy of digestion.
Lord Byron
I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride,
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
Fortune! take back these cultur'd lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around:
Place me among the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this-again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men-
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Lord Byron
Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, Sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, thou palace rarely entered!
Adieu, ye mansions where-I've ventured!
Adieu, ye curse'd streets of stairs!
(How surely he who mounts them swears!)
Adieu, ye merchants often failing!
Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!
Adieu, ye packets-without letters!
Adieu, ye fools-who ape your betters!
Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,
That gave me fever, and the spleen!
And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her-
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line-or two-were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine .
Nor ask the aid of idle song.
Lord Byron
I have warred with a World which vanquished me only
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,
The last single Captive to millions in war.
Farewell to thee, France!-but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then,-
The Violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;
Though withered, thy tear will unfold it again-
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice-
There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!
Lord Byron
And Hope but shed a dying spark
Which more misled my lonely way;
In that deep midnight of the mind,
And that internal strife of heart,
When dreading to be deemed too kind,
The weak despair-the cold depart;
When Fortune changed-and Love fled far,
And Hatred's shafts flew thick and fast,
Thou wert the solitary star
Which rose and set not to the last.
Oh! blest be thine unbroken light!
That watched me as a Seraph's eye,
And stood between me and the night,
For ever shining sweetly nigh.
Lord Byron
MY Sister! my sweet Sister! if a name
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.
Kingdoms and Empires in my little day
I have outlived, and yet I am not old;
And when I look on this, the petty spray
Of my own years of trouble, which have rolled
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away:
Something-I know not what-does still uphold
A spirit of slight patience;-not in vain,
Even for its own sake, do we purchase Pain.
Lord Byron
'T is time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!
The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some Volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile.
Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy Rest.
Lord Byron
Of rhymes I printed seven volumes-
The list concludes John Murray's columns .
But then I only sung of passions
That do not suit with modern fashions;
Of Incest and such like diversions
Permitted only to the Persians,
Or Greeks to bring upon their stages-
But that was in the earlier ages
Besides my style is the romantic,
Which some call fine, and some call frantic;
While others are or would seem as sick
Of repetitions nicknamed Classic.
For my part all men must allow
Whatever I was, I'm classic now.
I saw and left my fault in time,
And chose a topic all sublime-
Wondrous as antient war or hero-
Then played and sung away like Nero:
The subject has improved my wit so,
The first four lines the poet sees
Start forth in fourteen languages!
Though of seven volumes none before
Could ever reach the fame of four...
Lord Byron
For though Jeffrey made a great mistake in the commencement, he was sufficiently chastised for it, and from the time he was sensible of his fault, he has been uniform in a more fair and honourable mode of criticism than some who profess to be more decidedly my admirers. In fact, he has done as much as could be expected from one who was once my open enemy...
Lord Byron