George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron (17881824)

She walks in Beauty

SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that 's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 5

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 10

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, 15

A heart whose love is innocent!

On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year 'Tis time the heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze-A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus--and 'tis not here-Such thoughts should shake my soul nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. Awake! (not Greece--she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood!--unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? The land of honourable death Is here:--up to the field, and give Away thy breath! 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.

ChildeHarolds Pilgrimage, Canto III XXI There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgiums capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone oer fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! XXII Did ye not hear it?No; twas but the wind, Or the car rattling oer the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. But hark!that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds

its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it isit isthe cannons opening roar! XXIII Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswicks fated chieftain; he did hear That sound, the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Deaths prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. XXIV Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, ago And cheeks all pale, which but an hour

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which neer might be repeated: who would guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! XXV And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; afar; And the deep thunder peal on peal

And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lipsThe foe! They come! they come!

Don Juan, Canto III

V 'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign Of human frailty, folly, also crime, That love and marriage rarely can combine, Although they both are born in the same clime; Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine -A sad, sour, sober beverage -- by time Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour Down to a very homely household savour. VI There's something of antipathy, as 't were, Between their present and their future state; A kind of flattery that's hardly fair Is used until the truth arrives too late -Yet what can people do, except despair? The same things change their names at such a rate; For instance -- passion in a lover's glorious, But in a husband is pronounced uxorious.

VII Men grow ashamed of being so very fond; They sometimes also get a little tired (But that, of course, is rare), and then despond: The same things cannot always be admired, Yet 't is "so nominated in the bond," That both are tied till one shall have expired. Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. VIII There's doubtless something in domestic doings Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis; Romances paint at full length people's wooings, But only give a bust of marriages; For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss: Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life? IX All tragedies are finish'd by a death, All comedies are ended by a marriage; The future states of both are left to faith, For authors fear description might disparage The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage;

So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, They say no more of Death or of the Lady. X The only two that in my recollection Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are Dante and Milton, and of both the affection Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar Of fault or temper ruin'd the connection (Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar): But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive. XI Some persons say that Dante meant theology By Beatrice, and not a mistress -- I, Although my opinion may require apology, Deem this a commentator's fantasy, Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he Decided thus, and show'd good reason why; I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics Meant to personify the mathematics. XII Haide and Juan were not married, but The fault was theirs, not mine; it is not fair, Chaste reader, then, in any way to put The blame on me, unless you wish they were;

Then if you'd have them wedded, please to shut The book which treats of this erroneous pair, Before the consequences grow too awful; 'T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful.