Lord Byron

thumb|right|I had a dream, which was not all a dream. George Gordon (Noel) Byron, 6th Baron Byron (January 22 1788 – April 19 1824), generally known as Lord Byron, was an English poet and leading figure in Romanticism. He was the father of the mathematician Ada Lovelace. See also: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1812-1818) Don Juan (1818-1824) Quotes thumb|right| In secret we metIn silence I grieve,That thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive. thumb|right|The first — the last — the best — The Cincinnatus of the West… thumb|right|My great comfort is, that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and prejudices. I have flattered no ruling powers; I have never concealed a single thought that tempted me. thumb|right|There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away. thumb|right|There never yet was human powerWhich could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search and vigil longOf him who treasures up a wrong. thumb|I awoke one morning and found myself famous. thumb|right|A great poet belongs to no country; his works are public property, and his Memoirs the inheritance of the public. thumb|right|They never fail who dieIn a great cause. thumb|right|Who knows whether, when a comet shall approach this globe to destroy it...men will not tear rocks from their foundations by means of steam, and hurl mountains, as the giants are said to have done, against the flaming mass? When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past—For years fleet away with the wings of the dove— The dearest remembrance will still be the last,Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. The First Kiss of Love, st. 7 (1806). Farewell! if ever fondest prayerFor other's weal avail'd on high,Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. Farewell! if ever fondest Prayer (1808). I only know we loved in vain;I only feel — farewell! farewell! Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer (1808), st. 2. When we two partedIn silence and tears,Half brokenhearted,To sever for years. When We Two Parted (1808), stanza 1. In secret we metIn silence I grieve,That thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?With silence and tears. When We Two Parted (1808), st. 4. Near this spotAre deposited the Remains of oneWho possessed Beauty without Vanity,Strength without Insolence,Courage without Ferocity,And all the virtues of Man, without his Vices.This Praise, which would be unmeaning FlatteryIf inscribed over human ashes,Is but a just tribute to the Memory ofBOATSWAIN, a DOG Inscription on the monument of a Newfoundland dog (1808). The poor dog, in life the firmest friend,The first to welcome, foremost to defend. Inscription on the monument of a Newfoundland dog (1808). Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart! Maid of Athens, st. 1 (1810). The love where Death has set his seal,Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,Nor falsehood disavow. And Thou Art Dead as Young and Fair (1812). And thou wert lovely to the last,Extinguish'd, not decay'd;As stars that shoot along the skyShine brightest as they fall from high. And Thou Art Dead as Young and Fair (1812). If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom. Journal for Saturday, 27th November 1813; Quoted in Letters and Journals of Lord Byron by Thomas Moore (1830), Vol III, Chap. XVII, p. 208 Where may the wearied eye repose When gazing on the Great; Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state? Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — The Cincinnatus of the West,Whom envy dared not hate,Bequeath'd the name of Washington,To make man blush there was but one! Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte, st. 29 (1814). You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell With a deep thought, and with a softened eye, On that Old Sexton's natural homily, In which there was Obscurity and Fame, The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. Churchill's Grave, l. 43. Who knows whether, when a comet shall approach this globe to destroy it, as it often has been and will be destroyed, men will not tear rocks from their foundations by means of steam, and hurl mountains, as the giants are said to have done, against the flaming mass?—and then we shall have traditions of Titans again, and of wars with Heaven. As quoted in Conversations of Lord Byron with Thomas Medwin (1832). My great comfort is, that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and prejudices. I have flattered no ruling powers; I have never concealed a single thought that tempted me. Letter to Thomas Moore (9 April 1814). Fare thee well! and if forever,Still forever, fare thee well:Even though unforgiving, never'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Fare Thee Well, st. 1 (1816). My hair is grey, but not with years,Nor grew it whiteIn a single night,As men's have grown from sudden fears. The Prisoner of Chillon, st. 1 (1816). Oh, God! it is a fearful thingTo see the human soul take wingIn any shape, in any mood. The Prisoner of Chillon, st. 8. A light broke in upon my brain, —It was the carol of a bird;It ceased, and then it came again,The sweetest song ear ever heard. The Prisoner of Chillon, st. 10. There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away. Stanzas for Music (March 1815), reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). There be none of Beauty's daughtersWith a magic like thee;And like music on the watersIs thy sweet voice to me. Stanzas for Music, st. 1 (1816). I had a dream, which was not all a dream. Darkness, line 1 (1816). Though the day of my Destiny's over,And the star of my Fate hath declined,Thy soft heart refused to discoverThe faults which so many could find. Stanzas to Augusta, st. 1 (1816). In the desert a fountain is springing,In the wide waste there still is a tree,And a bird in the solitude singing,Which speaks to my spirit of thee. Stanzas to Augusta (1816), reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). The careful pilot of my proper woe. Epistle to Augusta, Stanza 3, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). As the liberty lads o'er the sea Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, So we, boys, we Shall die fighting or live free, And down with all kings but King Ludd! Song for the Luddites (1816). My boat is on the shore,And my bark is on the sea;But, before I go, Tom Moore.Here's a double health to thee! To Thomas Moore, st. 1 (1817). Here's a sigh to those who love me,And a smile to those who hate:And, whatever sky's above me,Here's a heart for every fate. To Thomas Moore, st. 2. Were't the last drop in the well,As I gasp'd upon the brink,Ere my fainting spirit fell'T is to thee that I would drink. To Thomas Moore, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). "Bring forth the horse!" — the horse was brought;In truth, he was a noble steed,A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,Who look'd as though the speed of thoughtWere in his limbs. Mazeppa (1819), stanza 9. And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human powerWhich could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search and vigil longOf him who treasures up a wrong. Mazeppa (1819), stanza 10. When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,    Let him combat for that of his neighbours;Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome    And get knock'd on the head for his labours.To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,    And is always as nobly requited;Then battle for freedom wherever you can.    And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted. Letter to Thomas Moore, 5 November 1820 Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;The days of our youth are the days of our glory;And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twentyAre worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. Stanzas Written on the Road Between Florence and Pisa, st. 1 (1821). The best of prophets of the future is the past. Journal (28 January 1821). The world is a bundle of hay,Mankind are the asses that pull,Each tugs in a different way—And the greatest of all is John Bull! Letter to Thomas Moore (22 June 1821). Send me no more reviews of any kind. — I will read no more of evil or good in that line. — Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years. Letter to his publisher, John Murray (3 November 1821). BecauseHe is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow?I judge but by the fruits—and they are bitter—Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. Cain (1821), Act I, sc. i. I live,But live to die: and, living, see no thingTo make death hateful, save an innate clinging,A loathsome and yet all invincibleInstinct of life, which I abhor, as IDespise myself, yet cannot overcome—And so I live. Would I had never lived! Cain (1821), Act I, sc. i. That which I am, I am; I did not seekFor life, nor did I make myself. Cain (1821), Act III, sc. i. Who killed John Keats?"I," says the Quarterly,So savage and Tartarly;"'Twas one of my feats." John Keats (c. 1821). He seemsTo have seen better days, as who has notWho has seen yesterday? Werner, Act I, sc. i (1822). What's drinking?A mere pause from thinking! The Deformed Transformed, Act III, sc. i (1824). My days are in the yellow leaf;The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;The worm — the canker, and the griefAre mine alone! On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year, st. 2 (1824). 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. On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year, st. 10. I awoke one morning and found myself famous. Memorandum reference to the instantaneous success of Childe Harold and quoted in Letters and Journals of Lord Byron by Thomas Moore (1830), chapter 14. A great poet belongs to no country; his works are public property, and his Memoirs the inheritance of the public. As quoted in Conversations of Lord Byron with Thomas Medwin (1832), Preface. Hands promiscuously applied,Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side. The Waltz, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). They never fail who dieIn a great cause. Marino Faliero, Act II, Scene 2, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship. Quoted by Marguerite Gardiner, Countess of Blessington in Conversations of Lord Byron with the Countess of Blessington (1834). Lord of himself,—that heritage of woe! Lara, Canto I, Stanza 2, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard;It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whisper'd word. Parisina, Stanza 1, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Yet in my lineaments they traceSome features of my father's face. Parisina, Stanza 13, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred. A Sketch, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Whose game was empires and whose stakes were thrones,Whose table earth, whose dice were human bones. Age of Bronze, Stanza 3, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). I loved my country, and I hated him. The Vision of Judgment, lxxxiii, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Friendship is Love without wings. L'Amitié est l'Amour sans Ailes, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). What say you to such a supper with such a woman? Note to a Letter on Bowles's Strictures, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). English Bards and Scotch Reviewers (1809) Text at readytogoebooks.com.April 2025 I'll publish right or wrong:Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. Line 5. 'Tis pleasure, sure, to see one's name in print;A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't. Line 51. A man must serve his time to every tradeSave censure — critics are ready-made. Line 63. With just enough of learning to misquote. Line 66. As soonSeek roses in December, ice in June;Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;Believe a woman or an epitaph,Or any other thing that's false, beforeYou trust in critics, who themselves are sore. Line 75. Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. Line 102. Perverts the Prophets and purloins the Psalms. Line 326. Oh, Amos Cottle! Phœbus! what a name! Line 399. 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low:So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,No more through rolling clouds to soar again,View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart. Line 826. A number of authors have addressed this common motif of an eagle shot with an eagle-feather arrow Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires,And decorate the verse herself inspires:This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,—Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best. Line 839. The Bride of Abydos (1813) Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtleAre emblems of deeds that are done in their clime?Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime! Canto I, stanza 1; this can be compared to: "Know'st thou the land where the lemon-trees bloom, / Where the gold orange glows in the deep thicket's gloom, / Where a wind ever soft from the blue heaven blows, / And the groves are of laurel and myrtle and rose!" Goethe, Wilhelm Meister. Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? Canto I, stanza 1. The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the music breathing from her face, 19The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,— And oh, that eye was in itself a soul! Canto I, Stanza 6; this can be compared to: "The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love", Thomas Gray, The Progress of Poesy I. 3, line 16; also: "Oh, could you view the melody / Of every grace / And music of her face", Richard Lovelace, Orpheus to Beasts; "There is music in the beauty, and the silent note which Cupid strikes, far sweeter than the sound of an instrument", Thomas Browne, Religio Medici, Part ii, Section ix. Who hath not proved how feebly words essayTo fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray? Who doth not feel, until his failing sightFaints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart, confessThe might, the majesty of loveliness? Canto I, stanza 6. The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle. Canto II, stanza 2. Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life, The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray! Canto II, stanza 20. Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease!He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace! Canto II, stanza 20. Here Byron is using an adaptation of a quote from Agricola by the Roman historian Tacitus (c. 30). The original words in the text are Auferre, trucidare, rapere, falsis nominibus imperium; atque, ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant (To robbery, slaughter, plunder, they give the lying name of empire; they make a wilderness, and call it peace). This has also been reported as Solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant (They make solitude, which they call peace). Hark! to the hurried question of despair: "Where is my child?"—an echo answers, "Where?" Canto II, stanza 27; this can be compared to: I came to the place of my birth, and cried, "The friends of my youth, where are they?" And echo answered, "Where are they?", Anonymous Arabic manuscript The Giaour (1813) thumb|right|Freedom's battle, once begun,Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,Though baffled oft, is ever won. thumb|right|I die — but first I have possessed,And come what may, I have been blessed. He who hath bent him o'er the deadEre the first day of death is fled,—The first dark day of nothingness,The last of danger and distress,Before decay's effacing fingersHave swept the lines where beauty lingers. Line 68. Such is the aspect of this shore;'T is Greece, but living Greece no more!So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,We start, for soul is wanting there. Line 90. Shrine of the mighty! can it beThat this is all remains of thee? Line 106. For freedom's battle, once begun,Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,Though baffled oft, is ever won. Line 123. And lovelier things have mercy shownTo every failing but their own,And every woe a tear can claimExcept an erring sister's shame. Line 418. The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed. Line 957. Better to sink beneath the shockThan moulder piecemeal on the rock. Line 969. The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name. Line 1099. I die — but first I have possessed,And come what may, I have been blessed. Line 1114. She was a form of life and lightThat seen, became a part of sight, And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, The morning-star of memory! Yes, love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fireWith angels shared, by Alla given, To lift from earth our low desire. Line 1127. The Corsair (1814) thumb|right|Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed farewell! The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse. Dedication. Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried. Canto I, stanza 1; this can be compared to: "To all nations their empire will be dreadful, because their ships will sail wherever billows roll or winds can waft them", Dalrymple, Memoirs, vol. iii, p. 152; "Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow", Charles Churchill, The Farewell, Line 38. O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 22Survey our empire, and behold our home!These are our realms, no limit to their sway,—Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. Canto I, stanza 1. She walks the waters like a thing of life,And seems to dare the elements to strife. Canto I, stanza 3. The power of thought,—the magic of the mind! Canto I, stanza 8. Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sunThe many still must labour for the one! Canto I, stanza 8. There was a laughing devil in his sneer. Canto I, stanza 9. Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed farewell! Canto I, stanza 9. Farewell! For in that word, that fatal word,—howe'erWe promise, hope, believe,—there breathes despair. Canto I, stanza 15. No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe. Canto III, stanza 22. He left a corsair's name to other times,Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. Canto III, stanza 24; this can be compared to: "Hannibal, as he had mighty virtues, so had he many vices; he had two distinct persons in him", Robert Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy, "Democritus to the Reader". Hebrew Melodies (1815) She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellow'd to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies. She Walks in Beauty, st. 1. The subject of these lines was Mrs. R. Wilmot.—Berry Memoirs, vol. iii. p. 7. Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;But on thy turf shall roses rearTheir leaves, the earliest of the year;And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom.And oft by yon blue gushing streamShall Sorrow lean her drooping head,And feed deep thought with many a dream,And lingering pause and lightly tread;Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!Away; we know that tears are vain,That death nor heeds nor hears distress;Will this unteach us to complain?Or make one mourner weep the less?And thou—who tell'st me to forget,Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom, from Hebrew Melodies So gleams the past, the light of other days,Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays. Sun of the Sleepless, from Hebrew Melodies 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 deep Galilee. The Destruction of Sennacherib, st. 1. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. The Destruction of Sennacherib, st. 3. And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! The Destruction of Sennacherib, st. 6. Monody on the Death of Sheridan (1816) When all of genius which can perish dies. Line 22. Folly loves the martyrdom of fame. Line 68. Who track the steps of glory to the grave. Line 74. Sighing that Nature formed but one such man,And broke the die, in molding Sheridan. Line 117; this can be compared to: "Natura il fece, e poi ruppe la stampa" (translated: "Nature made him, and then broke the mould"), Ariosto, Orlando Furioso, canto x, stanza 84; "The idea that Nature lost the perfect mould has been a favorite one with all song-writers and poets, and is found in the literature of all European nations", Book of English Songs, p. 28. The Dream (1816) thumb|right| She was his life,The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all. And both were young, and one was beautiful. Stanza 2. And to his eyeThere was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him. Stanza 2. She was his life,The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all. Stanza 2; this can be compared to: "She floats upon the river of his thoughts", Henry W. Longfellow, The Spanish Student, act ii, scene 3. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. Stanza 3. And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautifulThat God alone was to be seen in heaven. Stanza 4. Prometheus (1816) thumb|right|A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source… Prometheus (1816) Titan! to whom immortal eyes The sufferings of mortality Seen in their sad reality, Were not as things that gods despise; What was thy pity's recompense? A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless. I. Titan! to thee the strife was given Between the suffering and the will, Which torture where they cannot kill; And the inexorable Heaven, And the deaf tyranny of Fate, The ruling principle of Hate, Which for its pleasure doth create The things it may annihilate, Refused thee even the boon to die: The wretched gift eternity Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee, But would not to appease him tell; And in thy Silence was his Sentence, And in his Soul a vain repentance, And evil dread so ill dissembled, That in his hand the lightnings trembled. II. Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, To render with thy precepts less The sum of human wretchedness, And strengthen Man with his own mind; But baffled as thou wert from high, Still in thy patient energy, In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source; And Man in portions can foresee His own funereal destiny; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And his sad unallied existence: To which his Spirit may oppose Itself — and equal to all woes, And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can decry Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory. III. Manfred (1817) thumb|right|Mont Blanc is the Monarch of mountains;They crowned him long ago,On a throne of rocks — in a robe of clouds –With a Diadem of Snow. thumb|right|Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?It doth; but actions are our epochs… Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the mostMust mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth,The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. Act I, scene i. Mont Blanc is the Monarch of mountains;They crowned him long ago,On a throne of rocks — in a robe of clouds –With a Diadem of Snow. Act I, scene i. By thy cold breast and serpent smile,By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile,By that most seeming virtuous eye,By thy shut soul's hypocrisy;By the perfection of thine artWhich pass'd for human thine own heart;By thy delight in others' pain,And by thy brotherhood of Cain,I call upon thee! and compelThyself to be thy proper Hell! Act I, scene i. My mother Earth!And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains,Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye.And thou, the bright eye of the universe,That openest over all, and unto allArt a delight—thou shin'st not on my heart. Act I, scene ii. But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfitTo sink or soar. Act I, scene ii. To be thus—Grey-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines,Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless,A blighted trunk upon a cursed root,Which but supplies a feeling to decay—And to be thus, eternally but thus,Having been otherwise! Now furrow'd o'erWith wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by yearsAnd hours—all tortured into ages—hoursWhich I outlive!—Ye toppling crags of ice!Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws downIn mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me!I hear ye momently above, beneath,Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass,And only fall on things that still would live. Act I, scene ii. Patience! Hence—that word was madeFor brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey;Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,—I am not of thine order. Act II, scene i. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?It doth; but actions are our epochs: mineHave made my days and nights imperishableEndless, and all alike, as sands on the shoreInnumerable atoms; and one desertBarren and cold, on which the wild waves break,But nothing rests, save carcases and wrecks,Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. Act II, scene i. From my youth upwardsMy spirit walk'd not with the souls of men,Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes;The thirst of their ambition was not mine,The aim of their existence was not mine;My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powersMade me a stranger. Act II, scene ii. Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance. Act II, scene iv. Whate'erI may have been, or am, doth rest betweenHeaven and myself; I shall not choose a mortalTo be my mediator. Act III, scene i. There is no power in holy men,Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying formOf penitence, nor outward look, nor fast,Nor agony—nor, greater than all these,The innate tortures of that deep despair,Which is remorse without the fear of hell,But all in all sufficient to itselfWould make a hell of heaven,—can exorciseFrom out the unbounded spirit the quick senseOf its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revengeUpon itself; there is no future pangCan deal that justice on the self—condemn'dHe deals on his own soul. Act III, scene i. The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the Night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world. Act III, scene iv. The heart ran o'erWith silent worship of the great of old! The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still ruleOur spirits from their urns. Act III, scene iv. Old man! ’tis not so difficult to die. Act III, scene iv So, We'll Go No More A-Roving (1817) thumb|right|So, we'll go no more a rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright. Text at readytogoebooks.com. So, we'll go no more a rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright. St. 1. For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest. St. 2. Though the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we'll go no more a rovingBy the light of the moon. St. 3. Beppo (1818) thumb|right| He was a lover of the good old school,Who still become more constant as they cool. For most men (till by losing rendered sager)Will back their own opinions by a wager. Stanza 27. Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, Wished him five fathom under the Rialto. Stanza 32. His heart was one of those which most enamour us,Wax to receive, and marble to retain:He was a lover of the good old school,Who still become more constant as they cool. Stanza 34; this can be compared to: "My heart is wax to be moulded as she pleases, but enduring as marble to retain", Miguel de Cervantes, The Little Gypsy. Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. Stanza 39. I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,With syllables which breathe of the sweet South,And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,That not a single accent seems uncouth,Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural,Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. Stanza 44. Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. Stanza 45. O Mirth and Innocence! O milk and water! Ye happy mixtures of more happy days. Stanza 80. Sardanapalus (1821) thumb|right|How my soul hates This language, Which makes life itself a lie,Flattering dust with eternity. thumb|right|I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be — let it end. How my soul hates This language, Which makes life itself a lie,Flattering dust with eternity. Act I, scene 2. By all that's good and glorious. Act I, scene 2. Eat, drink, and love; the rest's not worth a fillip. Act I, scene 2. I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse — borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be — let it end. Act IV, scene 1. But take this with thee: if I was not form'd To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I've doted On lesser charms, for no cause save that such Devotion was a duty, and I hated All that look'd like a chain for me or others (This even rebellion must avouch); yet hear These words, perhaps among my last — that none E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not To profit by them… Act IV, scene 1. Oh! if thou hast at length Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, I ask no more—but let us hence together, And I — let me say we — shall yet be happy. Assyria is not all the earth—we'll find A world out of our own — and be more bless'd Than I have ever been, or thou, with all An empire to indulge thee. Act IV, scene 1. The dust we tread upon was once alive. Act IV, scene 1. My best! my last friends! Let's not unman each other: part at once: All farewells should be sudden, when for ever, Else they make an eternity of moments, And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. Hence, and be happy: trust me, I am not Now to be pitied; or far more for what Is past than present; — for the future, 'tis In the hands of the deities, if such There be: I shall know soon. Farewell — Farewell. Act V The Age of Bronze (1823) Text at readytogoebooks.com. The "good old times" — all times when old are good —Are gone. St. 1. Where is he, the champion and the childOf all that's great or little, wise or wild;Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones;Whose table earth — whose dice were human bones? St. 3. While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven,Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven,Or drawing from the no less kindled earthFreedom and peace to that which boasts his birth;While Washington's a watchword, such as ne'erShall sink while there's an echo left to air. St. 5. The Island (1823) Sublime tobacco! which from east to westCheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest. Canto II, Stanza 19. Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipeWhen tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; Like other charmers, wooing the caressMore dazzlingly when daring in full dress; Yet thy true lovers more admire by farThy naked beauties—give me a cigar! Canto II, Stanza 19. Jack was embarrassed — never hero more,And as he knew not what to say, he swore. Canto III, Stanza 5. Don Juan (1818-1824) She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth,And of the folly of all prudish fears,Victorious virtue, and domestic truth,And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years:[...]When people say, "I've told you fifty times,"They mean to scold, and very often do:When poets say, "I've written fifty rhymes,"They make you dread that they'll recite them too;In gangs of fifty thieves commit their crimes:At fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true,But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,A good deal may be bought for fifty louis. Canto I, stanzas 107-108 But now at thirty years my hair is gray––(I wonder what it will be like at forty?I thought of a peruke the other day)My heart is not much greener; and, in short, IHave squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May,And feel no more the spirit to retort; IHave spent my life, both interest and principal,And deem not, what I deem'd my soul invincible. Canto I, stanza 213. What is the end of fame? 'tis but to fillA certain portion of uncertain paper:Some liken it to climbing up a hill,Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper,"To have, when the original is dust,A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. Canto I, stanza 218. Both were so young, and one so innocent,That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'dTo her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent,Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, A something to be loved, a creature meantTo be her happiness, and whom she deem'dTo render happy; all who joy would winMust share it,––Happiness was born a twin. Canto II, stanza 172. Lord Byron's Armenian Exercises and Poetry (1870) Text at archive.org. It would be difficult, perhaps, to find the annals of a nation less stained with crimes than those of the Armenians, whose virtues have been those of peace, and their vices those of compulsion. But whatever may have been their destiny — and it has been bitter — whatever it may be in future, their country must ever be one of the most interesting on the globe. From the Letters of Lord Byron (2 January 1817), p. 6. [Armenian] is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it. "To Mr. Moore", From the Letters of Lord Byron, 5 December 1816, p. 12. Others As for me, by the blessing of indifference, I have simplified my politics into an utter detestation of all existing governments Letters and Journals of Lord Byron, LETTER CXVIII. TO MR. MURRAY. Quotes about Lord Byron thumb|Mad, bad and dangerous to know. ~ Lady Caroline Lamb Alphabetized by author thumb|The moral and political tittle-tattle of the day falls away, leaving the man and the talent standing alone in all their brilliance. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe What helps it now, that Byron bore,With haughty scorn which mocked the smart,Through Europe to the Aetolian shoreThe pageant of his bleeding heart?That thousands counted every groan,And Europe made his woe her own? Matthew Arnold, "Stanzas from the Grand Chartreuse," Fraser's Magazine (April 1855); reprinted in New Poems (1867). If they had said that the sun or the moon had gone out of the heavens, it could not have struck me with the idea of a more awful and dreary blank in creation than the words: "Byron is dead!" Jane Welsh Carlyle, letter to Thomas Carlyle (20 May 1824). The world is rid of Lord Byron, but the deadly slime of his touch still remains. John Constable, letter to the Rev. John Fisher (May 1824). Lord Byron is great only as a poet; as soon as he reflects, he is a child. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, said in conversation (18 January 1825) with Johann Peter Eckermann, quoted in Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe (1836). It still saddens me that Lord Byron, who showed such impatience with the fickle public, wasn't aware of how well the Germans can understand him and how highly they esteem him. With us the moral and political tittle-tattle of the day falls away, leaving the man and the talent standing alone in all their brilliance. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, letter to John Murray (29 March 1831). Emotional sorrow has inspired many sublime lyrics, much profound insight and poetic exultation of a Byron, Shelley, Heine, and their kind. Emma Goldman "Jealousy: Causes and a Possible Cure" (1910) Lord Byron makes man after his own image, woman after his own heart; the one is a capricious tyrant, the other a yielding slave. William Hazlitt, "Lord Byron," The Spirit of the Age (1825). Whatever he does, he must do in a more decided and daring manner than any one else; he lounges with extravagance, and yawns so as to alarm the reader! William Hazlitt, "Lord Byron," The Spirit of the Age (1825). In a room at the end of the garden to this house was a magnificent rocking-horse, which a friend had given my little boy; and Lord Byron, with a childish glee becoming a poet, would ride upon it. Ah! why did he ever ride his Pegasus to less advantage? Leigh Hunt, Autobiography (1850), vol. II, ch. XV. The list of writers, artists, and composers who were directly inspired by Byron's life and poetry is almost without peer; it includes Hector Berlioz, Alexander Pushkin, J. M. W. Turner, Robert Schumann, Victor Hugo, Alfred-Victor de Vigny, Alfred de Musset, Giuseppe Verdi, Gaetano Donizetti, Franz Liszt, Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Arnold Schoenberg, Gioacchino Rossini, Charles Baudelaire, and Virgil Thomson. Not surprisingly, most of these influenced by Byron were themselves intensely emotional and inclined toward the Romantic. Katherine Kernberger The Leslie A. Marchand Memorial Lectures, 2000–2015: A Legacy in Byron Studies https://books.google.com/books?id=EikzDwAAQBAJ&pg=PA49 22 September 2017 University of Delaware Press 978-1-61149-668-0 49 You speak of Lord Byron and me — there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees — I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task. John Keats, letter to George and Georgiana Keats (September 1819). Mad, bad and dangerous to know. Lady Caroline Lamb, written in her journal upon their first meeting at a ball (March 1812) From the poetry of Lord Byron they drew a system of ethics, compounded of misanthropy and voluptuousness, a system in which the two great commandments were, to hate your neighbour, and to love your neighbour's wife. Thomas Babington Macaulay, in "Moore's Life of Lord Byron" (June 1830), from Critical and Historical Essays Contributed to the Edinburgh Review (1843), vol. I. I never heard a single expression of fondness for him fall from the lips of any of those who knew him well. Thomas Babington Macaulay, letter to Hannah and Margaret Macaulay (7 June 1831). Tragedy of childhood. Not infrequently, noble-minded and ambitious men have to endure their harshest struggle in childhood, perhaps by having to assert their characters against a low-minded father, who is devoted to pretense and mendacity, or by living, like Lord Byron, in continual struggle with a childish and wrathful mother. If one has experienced such struggles, for the rest of his life he will never get over knowing who has been in reality his greatest and most dangerous enemy. Friedrich Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human (1878). Always looking at himself in mirrors to make sure he was sufficiently outrageous. Enoch Powell, Sunday Times (8 May 1988). Had Byron never written a line of poetry, his letters would give him a place in literature. Rowland Prothero, 1st Baron Ernle, The New Letters of Byron The Quarterly Review 237 430–450 https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=hvd.32044092529320;view=1up;seq=455 April 1922, quote p. 433 Our Lord Byron — the fascinating — faulty — childish — philosophical being — daring the world — docile to a private circle — impetuous and indolent — gloomy and yet more gay than any other. Mary Shelley, letter to John Murray (19 January 1830). If I could envy any man for successful ill nature I should envy Lord Byron for his skill in satirical nomenclature. Sydney Smith, letter to Elizabeth Vassal Fox, Lady Holland (June 1810). The news came to the village — the dire news which spread across the land, filling men's hearts with consternation — that Byron was dead. Tennyson was then about a boy of fifteen."Byron was dead! I thought the whole world was at an end," he once said, speaking of those bygone days. "I thought everything was over and finished for everyone — that nothing else mattered. I remembered I walked out alone, and carved 'Byron is dead' into the sandstone." Anne Isabella Thackeray, Lady Ritchie, Records of Tennyson, Ruskin, and Robert and Elizabeth Browning (1892). External links George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron George_Byron George Byron Category:1788 births Category:1824 deaths Category:Academics from England Category:British peers Category:Playwrights from England Category:Poets from England Category:Politicians from England Category:People from London Category:Philosophical pessimists Category:Romantic poets Category:19th-century British poets Category:LGBT people Category:Vegetarians Category:University of Cambridge alumni