She Walks in Beauty

SHE walks in beauty like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to the tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One ray the more, one shade the less

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress

Or softly lightens o'er her face,

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow

So soft, so calm yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow

But tell of days in goodness spent

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.

Lord Byron, (George Gordon)

I Would I Were a Careless Child

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 cultured 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.

Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er designed for me:

Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal

The hour when man must cease to be?

Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary scene of bliss:

Truth! -- wherefore did thy hated beam

Awake me to a world like this?

I loved -- but those I loved are gone;

Had friends -- my early friends are fled:

How cheerless feels the heart alone

When all its former hopes are dead!

Though gay companions o'er the bowl

Dispel awhile the sense of ill;

Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,

The heart -- the heart -- is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,

Have made, though neither friends nor foes,

Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same,

And I will fly the midnight crew,

Where boist'rous joy is but a name.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,

My hope, my comforter, my all!

How cold must be my bosom now,

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!

Without a sigh I would resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,

To make that calm contentment mine,

Which virtue knows, or seems to know.

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.

Oh! that to me the wings were given

Which bear the turtle to her nest!

Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,

To flee away and be at rest.

Lord Byron, (George Gordon)

Adieu, Adieu! My Native Shore

'ADIEU, adieu! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;

The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon Sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight;

Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native Land -- Good Night!

'A few short hours and He will rise

To give the Morrow birth;

And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother Earth.

Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;

My dog howls at the gate.

'Come hither, hither, my little page!

Why dost thou weep and wail?

Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,

Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;

Our ship is swift and strong,

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along.' --

'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind;

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save these alone,

But thee -- and one above.

'My father bless'd be fervently,

Yet did not much complain;

But sorely will my mother sigh

Till I come back again.' --

'Enough, enough, my little lad!

Such tears become thine eye;

If I thy guileless bosom had,

Mine own would not be dry. --

'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,

Why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman?

Or shiver at the gale?'--

'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;

But thinking on an absent wife

Will blanch a faithful cheek.

'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

Along the bordering lake,

And when they on their father call,

What answer shall she make?'--

'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,

Thy grief let none gainsay;

But I, who am of lighter mood,

Will laugh to flee away.

'For who would trust the seeming sighs

Of wife or paramour?

Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes

We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,

Nor perils gathering near;

My greatest grief is that I leave

No thing that claims a tear.

'And now I'm in the world alone,

Upon the wide, wide sea;

But why should I for others groan,

When none will sigh for me?

Perchance my dog will whine in vain,

Till fed by stranger hands;

But long ere I come back again

He'd tear me where he stands.

'With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go

Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,

So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!

And when you fail my sight,

Welcome ye deserts, and ye caves!

My native land -- Good Night!'

Lord Byron, (George Gordon)

When We Two Parted

WHEN we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow--

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame;

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me--

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:--

Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met--

In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?--

With silence and tears.

Lord Byron, (George Gordon)

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods

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:

I love not man the less, but Nature more,

From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Lord Byron, (George Gordon)

He Who Ascends to Mountain-Tops

HE who ascends to mountain-tops shall find

The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;

He who surpasses or subdues mankind,

Must look down on the hate of those below.

Though high above the sun of glory glow,

And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,

Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow

Contending tempests on his naked head.

And thus rewards the toils which to those summits led.

Lord Byron, (George Gordon)

So We'll Go No More a-Roving

SO we'll go no more a-roving

   So late into the night,

Though the heart still be as loving,

   And the moon still be as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

   And the soul outwears the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

   And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,

   And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a-roving

   By the light of the moon.

Lord Byron, (George Gordon)

The Destruction of Sennacherib

     1

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on the Galilee.

     2

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

     3

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

     4

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

     5

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.

     6

And the widows of Ashur are load in thier wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Lord Byron, (George Gordon)

Stanzas for Music

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:

When, as if its sound were causing

The charmèd ocean's pausing,

The waves lie still and gleaming,

And the lull'd winds seem dreaming.

And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o'er the deep,

Whose breast is gently heaving

As an infant's asleep:

So the sprit bows before thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

Lord Byron, (George Gordon)

Sonnet to Lake Leman

ROUSSEAU -- Voltaire -- our Gibbon -- De Staël --

Leman! these names are worthy of thy shore,

Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more,

Their memory thy remembrance would recall:

To them thy banks were lovely as to all,

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore

Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core

Of human hearts the ruin of a wall

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee

How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,

In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea,

The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,

Which of the heirs of immortality

Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!

George Gordan, Lord Byron