Poems by George Gordon Byron

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Don Juan: Canto The Fourth

Nothing so difficult as a beginning

In poesy, unless perhaps the end;

For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning

The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,

Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning;

Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,

Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,

Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

by George Gordon Byron

Don Juan: Canto The Fifth

When amatory poets sing their loves

In liquid lines mellifluously bland,

And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,

They little think what mischief is in hand;

The greater their success the worse it proves,

As Ovid's verse may give to understand;

Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity,

Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.

by George Gordon Byron

Don Juan: Dedication

Bob Southey! You're a poet—Poet-laureate,

And representative of all the race;

Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory at

Last—yours has lately been a common case;

And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?

With all the Lakers, in and out of place?

A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye

Like "four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;II

by George Gordon Byron

Euthanasia

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring

The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,

Oblivion! may thy languid wing

Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

No band of friends or heirs be there,

To weep, or wish, the coming blow:

No maiden, with dishevelled hair,

To feel, or feign, decorous woe.

by George Gordon Byron

Don Juan: Canto The Twelfth

Of all the barbarous middle ages, that

Which is most barbarous is the middle age

Of man; it is--I really scarce know what;

But when we hover between fool and sage,

And don't know justly what we would be at--

A period something like a printed page,

Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair

Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were;--

by George Gordon Byron

To M--

Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,

With bright, but mild affection shine:

Though they might kindle less desire,

Love, more than mortal, would be thine.

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,

Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,

We must admire, but still despair;

That fatal glance forbids esteem

by George Gordon Byron

To M S G : When I Dream That You Love Me

When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;

Extend not your anger to sleep;

For in visions alone your affection can live,--

I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,

Shed o'er me your languor benign;

Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,

What rapture celestial is mine!

by George Gordon Byron

Don Juan: Canto The Second

Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,

Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,

I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,

It mends their morals, never mind the pain:

The best of mothers and of educations

In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,

Since, in a way that 's rather of the oddest, he

Became divested of his native modesty.

by George Gordon Byron

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,

On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;

But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year;

And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,

And feed deep thought with many a dream,

by George Gordon Byron

There Was A Time, I Need Not Name

There was a time, I need not name,

Since it will ne'er forgotten be,

When all our feelings were the same

As still my soul hath been to thee.

And from that hour when first thy tongue

Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,

Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine,

by George Gordon Byron

Don Juan: Canto The Eighth

Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!

These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,

Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:

And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream

Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds

At present such things, since they are her theme,

So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars,

Bellona, what you will--they mean but wars.

by George Gordon Byron

Impromptus

Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times,

Patron and publisher of rhymes,

For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,

My Murray.

To thee, with hope and terror dumb,

The unfledged MS. authors come;

Thou printest all-and sellest some-

My Murray.

by George Gordon Byron