Poems by George Gordon Byron

All Poems Original Poems Translations

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Lines On Mr Hodgson Written On Board The Lisbon Packet

Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,

Our embargo's off at last;

Favourable breezes blowing

Bend the canvass o'er the mast.

From aloft the signal's streaming,

Hark! the farewell gun is fir'd;

Women screeching, tars blaspheming,

Tell us that our time's expir'd.

by George Gordon Byron

Stanzas To Jessy

There is a mystic thread of life

So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,

That Destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever both, or none.

There is a Form on which these eyes

Have fondly gazed with such delight—-

By day, that Form their joy supplies,

And Dreams restore it, through the night.

by George Gordon Byron

The Adieu

Written Under The Impression That The Author Would Soon Die.

Adieu, thou Hill! where early joy

Spread roses o'er my brow;

Where Science seeks each loitering boy

With knowledge to endow.

Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,

Partners of former bliss or woes;

No more through Ida's paths we stray;

by George Gordon Byron

The Dream

Our life is two-fold: Sleep hath its own world,

A boundary between the things misnamed

Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,

And a wide realm of wild reality.

And dreams in their development have breath,

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,

by George Gordon Byron

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt Canto II

Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!-but thou, alas!

Didst never yet one mortal song inspire-

Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,

And is, despite of war and wasting fire,

And years, that bade thy worship to expire:

But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,

Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire

by George Gordon Byron

Adieu, Adieu! My Native Shore

Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Fades o'ver the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight;

Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native Land-Good Night!

by George Gordon Byron

The First Kiss Of Love

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance;

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,

Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;

From what blest inpiration your sonnets would flow,

Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!

by George Gordon Byron

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt Canto I

To Ianthe:

Not in those climes where I have late been straying,

Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd;

Not in those visions to the heart displaying

Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd,

Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd:

Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek

To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd --

by George Gordon Byron

Don Juan: Canto The Eleventh

When Bishop Berkeley said 'there was no matter,'

And proved it--'twas no matter what he said:

They say his system 'tis in vain to batter,

Too subtle for the airiest human head;

And yet who can believe it? I would shatter

Gladly all matters down to stone or lead,

Or adamant, to find the world a spirit,

And wear my head, denying that I wear it.

by George Gordon Byron

On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year

'Tis time this 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

by George Gordon Byron

A Spirit Passed Before Me [From Job]

A spirit passed before me: I beheld

The face of immortality unveiled--

Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine--

And there it stood,--all formless--but divine:

Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;

And as my damp hair stiffened, thus it spake:

"Is man more just than God? Is man more pure

Than He who deems even Seraphs insecure?

by George Gordon Byron

Stanzas Composed During A Thunderstorm

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast,

Where Pindus' mountains rise,

And angry clouds are pouring fast

The vengeance of the skies.

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,

And lightnings, as they play,

But show where rocks our path have crost,

Or gild the torrent's spray.

by George Gordon Byron