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Lord Byron -
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And she for him had given
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven!
The spirit burning but unbent,
May writhe, rebel—the weak alone repent!
For in that word, that fatal word,—howe'er
We promise, hope, believe,—there breathes despair.
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light.
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun
The many still must labour for the one!
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, 22
Survey our empire, and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limit to their sway,—
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
He left a corsair's name to other times,
Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.
Oh! too convincing — dangerously dear —
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear!
No words suffice the secret soul to show,
For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.
She walks the waters like a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife.
Quote of the day
Logic is the last scientific ingredient of Philosophy; its extraction leaves behind only a confusion of non-scientific, pseudo problems.
January 22, 1788
April 19, 1824
George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron, commonly known simply as Lord Byron, was an English poet and a leading figure in the Romantic movement.
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