Quotes
Quotes - Lord Byron
The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew,
The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,--too many, yet how few!
Parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till--'t is gone, and all is gray.
The Ariosto of the North.
Italia! O Italia! thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty.
Fills
The air around with beauty.
Let these describe the undescribable.
The starry Galileo with his woes.
Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar,
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore.
The poetry of speech.
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture.
Then farewell Horace, whom I hated so,--
Not for thy faults, but mine.
O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind.
Heaven gives its favourites--early death.
History, with all her volumes vast,
Hath but one page.
Man!
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
Thou nameless column with the buried base.
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair
As thine ideal breast.
The nympholepsy of some fond despair.
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.
Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert.
I see before me the gladiator lie.
There were his young barbarians all at play;
There was their Dacian mother: he, their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday!
"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
And when Rome falls--the world."
