The Son of Love and Lord of War I sing;
Him who bade England bow to Normandy
And left the name of conqueror more than king
To his unconquerable dynasty.
Not fann’d alone by Victory’s fleeting wing,
He rear’d his bold and brilliant throne on high:
The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast,
And Britain’s bravest victor was the last.
Other works by Lord Byron...
Answer to Some Elegant Verses Sent by a Friend to the Author, Complaining That One of His Descriptions Was Rather Too Warmly Drawn
‘But if any old lady, knight, prie
Should condemn me for printing a s
If good Madam Squintum my work sh
May I venture to give her a smack
CANDOUR compels me, BECHER!