Poems List

Sonnet, To The Same (Genevra)

Sonnet, To The Same (Genevra)

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deepblue
eyesbut,
oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
👁️ 495

Sonnet to Lake Leman

Sonnet to Lake Leman

Rousseau Voltaire
our
Gibbon De
Staël Leman!
these names are worthy of thy shore,
Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more,
Their memory thy remembrance would recall:
To them thy banks were lovely as to all,
But they have made them lovelier, for the lore
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall
Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee
How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea,
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,
Which of the heirs of immortality
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!
👁️ 563

Sonnet - to Genevra

Sonnet - to Genevra

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deepblue
eyesbut,
oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round Heaven's airy bow.
For, though thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
👁️ 643

So We'll Go No More a-Roving

So We'll Go No More a-Roving

So we'll go no more aroving
So late into the night,
Though the heart still be as loving,
And the moon still be as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more aroving
By the light of the moon.
👁️ 586

Song For The Luddites

Song For The Luddites

I.
As the Liberty lads o'er the sea
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,
So we, boys, we
Will die fighting, or live free,
And down with all kings but King Ludd!
II.
When the web that we weave is complete,
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,
We will fling the winding sheet
O'er the despot at our feet,
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd.
III.
Though black as his heart its hue,
Since his veins are corrupted to mud,
Yet this is the dew
Which the tree shall renew
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!
👁️ 666

Remind Me Not, Remind Me Not

Remind Me Not, Remind Me Not

Remind me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till Time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.

Can I forgetcanst
thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.

When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach'd yet rais'd desire,
And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.

And then those pensive eyes would close,

And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss


Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.

I dreamt last night our love return'd,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn'd,
For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam
In Rapture's wild reality.

Then tell me not, remind me not,
Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore,
Till Thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless, as the mouldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more.
👁️ 494

Saul

Saul


Thou whose spell can raise the dead,
Bid the prophet's form appear.
'Samuel, raise thy buried head!
King, behold the phantom seer!'


Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud:
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud.
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye:
His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry;
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there,
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare;
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame,
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow acccents came.
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak,
At once, and blasted by the thunderstroke.


'Why is my sleep disquieted?
Who is he that calls the dead?
Is it thou, O King? Behold,
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:
Such are mine; and such shall be
Thine tomorrow,
when with me:
Ere the coming day is done,
Such shalt thou be, such thy son.
Fare thee well, bur for a day,
Then we mix our mouldering clay.
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart thy hand shall guide:
Crownless, breathless, headless fall,
Son and sire, the house of Saul!'
👁️ 564

Prometheus

Prometheus


Titan! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,

Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,


The suffocating sense of woe,

Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh


Until its voice is echoless.

Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;


And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refus'd thee even the boon to die:
The wretched gift Eternity
Was thineand
thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.


Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,


And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse


Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,

A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;



His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itselfand
equal to all woes,


And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry

Its own concenter'd recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.
👁️ 528

Remember Thee! Remember Thee!

Remember Thee! Remember Thee!

Remember thee! remember thee!
Till Lethe quench life's burning stream
Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,
And haunt thee like a feverish dream!


Remember thee! Aye, doubt it not.
Thy husband too shall think of thee:
By neither shalt thou be forgot,
Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!
👁️ 399

On this Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year

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 blazeA
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 thusand
'tis not hereSuch
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 Greeceshe
is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy lifeblood
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 outless
often sought than foundA
soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.
👁️ 524

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Identification and basic context

Lord Byron, whose full name was George Gordon Byron, later Noel Byron, 6th Baron Byron, is widely recognized as one of the most prominent figures of the Romantic era in English literature. He was born into the British aristocracy, inheriting the title of Baron Byron. His nationality was British, and he wrote exclusively in English. The historical context in which he lived was one of significant social, political, and literary upheaval, including the aftermath of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars, and the flourishing of Romanticism.

Childhood and education

Byron's childhood was marked by hardship. His mother, Catherine Gordon, was left with little money and raised him in Aberdeen, Scotland. His father, Captain John Byron, a notorious womanizer, abandoned them when George was three years old. This early separation and his mother's often harsh treatment left a profound impact on him. He was educated at Aberdeen Grammar School and then attended Trinity College, Cambridge. Despite his aristocratic background, his family's financial struggles meant he often felt like an outsider. His early readings included classical literature, the Bible, and the works of contemporary poets, which, along with his volatile home life, shaped his early sensibilities.

Literary trajectory

Byron's literary career began in earnest during his Cambridge years. His first collection of poems, 'Hours of Idleness', published in 1807, was met with harsh criticism, notably from 'The Edinburgh Review', which spurred him to respond with his satire 'English Bards and Scotch Reviewers' (1809). His first major success came with the publication of the opening cantos of 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage' in 1812, which propelled him to instant fame. This was followed by a series of highly successful narrative poems, often drawing on historical or exotic settings, such as 'The Giaour' (1813), 'The Bride of Abydos' (1813), 'The Corsair' (1814), and 'Lara' (1814). His dramatic works, including 'Manfred' (1817) and 'Cain' (1821), explored profound philosophical and theological questions. His epic poem 'Don Juan' (begun in 1819), a satirical masterpiece, showcased his wit, irony, and expansive vision. Byron also contributed to various literary periodicals and anthologies, and his letters and journals provide significant insights into his life and thought.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Byron's major works include 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage', 'Don Juan', 'Manfred', 'Cain', and numerous shorter lyric poems and narrative tales. His dominant themes encompass love (often passionate and unrequited), freedom (personal and political), the struggle against fate, the sublime beauty of nature, heroism, the disillusionment of experience, and critiques of social and religious hypocrisy. Stylistically, Byron was known for his vivid imagery, powerful rhythm, and dramatic intensity. He employed a wide range of forms, from the Spenserian stanza in 'Childe Harold' to ottava rima in 'Don Juan', and experimented with blank verse and other metrical structures. His poetic voice is often marked by a compelling blend of romantic idealism, passionate emotion, sharp wit, and profound irony. His language is rich and evocative, employing striking metaphors and a commanding rhetorical power. Byron's work is often associated with Romanticism, but his cynicism and satirical edge also prefigure later literary developments.

Cultural and historical context

Byron lived through a period of immense change, influenced by the ideals of the French Revolution and the ensuing Napoleonic Wars. He was a prominent figure in the second generation of British Romantics, alongside poets like Shelley and Keats. His radical political views and bohemian lifestyle often placed him at odds with the conservative establishment of his time. His travels and experiences, particularly his involvement in the Greek War of Independence, where he became a national hero, deeply intertwined his life with the political currents of Europe. He was part of a vibrant literary circle, though his relationships with contemporaries like Wordsworth and Coleridge were complex, often marked by admiration and critical distance.

Personal life

Byron's personal life was as dramatic and turbulent as his poetry. His relationships were often intense and tumultuous, including a scandalous marriage to Annabella Milbanke, which ended in separation and fuelled much public speculation. He also had rumored relationships with both men and women. His close friendships with figures like Thomas Moore, his biographer, and Percy Bysshe Shelley were significant. Byron suffered from a club foot, a physical disability that he felt deeply and which may have contributed to his rebellious spirit and his fascination with heroic figures. His later years were defined by his expatriation from England and his commitment to the cause of Greek independence.

Recognition and reception

Byron achieved immense fame during his lifetime, becoming a European celebrity. His works were widely read and admired, and his persona captivated the public imagination. He was hailed as a literary genius and a romantic hero. However, his radicalism and personal scandals also led to significant criticism and public condemnation, particularly after his separation from his wife. Posthumously, his reputation has endured, solidified by his literary achievements and his heroic death. While his works have been subject to critical re-evaluation, his place in the canon of English literature is secure.

Influences and legacy

Byron was influenced by classical poets, Shakespeare, and contemporary Romantic writers. His own influence has been vast, extending across Europe and beyond. The concept of the "Byronic hero" – a brooding, passionate, and rebellious individual – became a significant archetype in literature and culture. He inspired countless writers, artists, and musicians, and his work has been translated into numerous languages. His engagement with themes of liberty and his personal sacrifice for the Greek cause left a lasting legacy.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Byron's work has been interpreted in various ways, often seen as a complex interplay between romantic idealism and cynical realism. Critics have explored the autobiographical elements in his poetry, the philosophical depth of his critiques of religion and society, and his mastery of satire. Debates have often centered on the sincerity of his emotions, the extent of his political engagement, and the relationship between his life and his art. His exploration of themes like freedom, fate, and the human condition continues to resonate.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Byron was known for his eccentricities, including keeping a bear as a pet at Cambridge. He was also an accomplished swimmer and once swam the Hellespont. His diaries and letters reveal a man of great intellect, wit, and also considerable vanity and self-pity. He had a deep affection for his half-sister, Augusta Leigh, which fueled scandalous rumors. His habits included writing late into the night, often fueled by wine and opium.

Death and memory

Byron died in 1824 at the age of 36 from a fever in Missolonghi, Greece, while actively engaged in the Greek War of Independence. His death was mourned throughout Greece and widely in Europe, solidifying his heroic status. His body was returned to England, and he is buried in the parish church of Hucknall. His memory is preserved through his enduring literary works, his status as a national hero in Greece, and the ongoing fascination with his life and legend.