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LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON)
English poet
(1788 - 1824)
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When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
  And when Rome falls--the World.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 145) [Rome]

O! that the Desert were my dwelling place,
  With one fair Spirit for my minister,
    That I might all forget the human race,
      And, hating no one, love but only her!
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 177) [Love]

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
  There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
    There is society where none intrudes
      By the deep Sea, and music in its roar.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 178)
        [Pleasure]

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
  Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
    Man marks the earth with ruin--his control
      Stops with the shore.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 179) [Ocean]

Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 179) [Death]

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow,
  Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 182) [Ocean]

The image of Eternity--the throne
  Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
    The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
      Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 183) [Ocean]

And I have loved them, Ocean! and my joy
  Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
    Borne, like shy bubbles, onward; from a boy
      I wanton'd with thy breakers.
        . . . .
          And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 184) [Ocean]

I am not now
  That which I have been.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 185) [Change]

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been--
  A sound which makes us linger;--yet--farewell!
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 186)
        [Farewell]

Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 23)
        [Electricity]

Parting day
  Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
    With a new colour as it gasps away,
      The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is gray.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 29)
        [Twilight]

In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more,
  And silent rows the songless gondolier;
    Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
      And music meets not always now the ear.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 3) [Venice]

Venice once was dear,
  The pleasant place of all festivity,
    The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 3) [Venice]

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
  It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
    No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 33)
        [Solitude]

Thou who hast
  The fatal gist of beauty.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 42) [Beauty]

Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar,
  Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 57)
        [Florence]

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,
  Not for thy faults, but mine.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 77) [Faults]

O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 78) [Rome]

The Niobe of nations! There she stands,
  Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 79) [Women]

Temple and tower went down, nor left a site:--
  Chaos of ruins!
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 80) [Chaos]

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
  Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind.
      - Childe Harold (canto IV, st. 98) [Freedom]

To aid thy mind's development, to watch
  Thy dawn of little joys, to sit and see
    Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch
      Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee!
        To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
          And print on thy soft cheek a parents kiss,
            This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;
              Yet this was in my nature: as it is,
                I know not what is there, yet something like to this.
      - Childe Harold (III, 116) [Children]

What exile from himself can flee?
  To zones, though more and more remote,
    Still, still pursues, where'er I be,
      The blight of life--the demon Thought.
      - Childe Harold--To Inez
         (canto I, st. 84, l. 6) [Thought]

When health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
  And flies with every changing gale of spring.
      - Childish Recollections (l. 3) [Health]


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