Cargando...
es
English Español Français Italiano

Lord Byron

On Lord Thurlow’s Poems

When Thurlow this damn’d nonsense sent
(I hope I am not violent),
Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.
 
And since not even our Rogers’ praise
To common sense his thoughts could raise—
Why would they let him print his lays’
 
To me, divine Apollo, grant—O!
Hermilda s first and second canto,
I’m fitting up a new portmanteau;
 
And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others’ bays I’m twining,—
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

#EnglishWriters #Romantic

Otras obras de Lord Byron...
The Isles of Greece

THE isles of Greece! the isles o… Where burning Sappho loved and su… Where grew the arts of war and pea… Where Delos rose, and Phoebus spr… Eternal summer gilds them yet,
 1
To Emma

Since now the hour is come at last… When you must quit your anxious lo… Since now our dream of bliss is pa… One pang, my girl, and all is over… Alas! that pang will be severe,
 1
from Don Juan: Canto 1, Stanzas 60-63

Her eye (I’m very fond of handsom… Was large and dark, suppressing ha… Until she spoke, then through its… Flash’d an expression more of prid… And love than either; and there wo…
 1
Napoleon’s Farewell (From the French)

Farewell to the Land where the gl… Arose and o’ershadow’d the earth w… She abandons me now—but the page o… The brightest or blackest, is fill… I have warr’d with a world which v…
Thoughts Suggested by a College Examination

High in the midst, surrounded by h… MAGNUS his ample front sublime… Placed on his chair of state, he s… While Sophs and Freshmen tremble… As all around sit wrapt in speechl…
Impromptus

Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the ti… Patron and publisher of rhymes, For thee the bard up Pindus climb… My Murray. To thee, with hope and terror dumb…
Endorsement to the Deed of Separation in the April of 1816

A year ago, you swore, fond she! ‘To love, to honour,’ and so forth… Such was the vow you pledged to me… And here’s exactly what 'tis worth…
Thy Days Are Done

Thy days are done, thy fame begun; Thy country’s strains record The triumphs of her chosen Son, The slaughter of his sword! The deeds he did, the fields he wo…
Lines Written Beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow on the Hill, Sept. 2, 1807

Spot of my youth! whose hoary bran… Swept by the breeze that fans thy… Where now alone I muse, who oft h… With those I loved, thy soft and… With those who, scattered far, per…
The Giaour: A Fragment of a Turkish Tale

No breath of air to break the wave That rolls below the Athenian’s g… That tomb which, gleaming o’er the… First greets the homeward-veering… High o’er the land he saved in vai…
To a Lady, Who Presented the Author With the Velvet Band Which Bound Her Tresses

This Band, which bound thy yellow… Is mine, sweet girl! Thy pledge o… It claims my warmest, dearest care… Like relics left of saints above. Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
Darkness

I had a dream, which was not all a… The bright sun was extinguish’d, a… Did wander darkling in the eternal… Rayless, and pathless, and the icy… Swung blind and blackening in the…
 5
Granta: A Medley

Oh! could Le Sage’s demon’s gift Be realized at my desire, This night my trembling form he’d… To place it on St. Mary’s spire. Then would, unroof’d, old Granta’…
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto III.

Is thy face like thy mother’s, my… Ada! sole daughter of my house and… When last I saw thy young blue ey… And then we parted,—not as now we… But with a hope.—
To a Lady Who Presented to the Author a Lock of Hair Braided With His Own, and Appointed a Night in December to Meet Him in the Garden

These locks, which fondly thus ent… In firmer chains our hearts confin… Than all th’ unmeaning protestatio… Which swell with nonsense, love or… Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve…



Top