George Gordon Byron (1788–1824)

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A

Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Ah!- What should follow slips from my reflection

As o’er the cold sepulchral stone

A spirit pass’d before me: I beheld

Away, away, ye notes of woe!

B

Bob Southey! You ’re a poet- Poet-laureate

Bright be the place of thy soul!

C

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast

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

F

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine

Fare thee well! and if for ever

Farewell! If ever fondest prayer

Francisca walks in the shadow of night

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome

H

Hail, Muse! et cetera.- We left Juan sleeping

I

If from great nature’s or our own abyss

If that high world, which lies beyond

I now mean to be serious;- it is time

In the valley of the waters we wept o’er the day

I saw thee weep — the big bright tear

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name

Is thy face like thy mother’s, my fair child!

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs

It is known, at least it should be, that throughout

It is the hour when from the boughs [It Is the Hour]

It is the hour when from the boughs [Parisina]

I want a hero: an uncommon want

I would I were a careless child

L

Long years!—It tries the thrilling frame to bear

M

Montgomery! true, the common lot

My soul is dark — Oh! quickly string

N

Nothing so difficult as a beginning

Not in those climes where I have late been straying

O

Of all the barbarous middle ages, that

Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!

Oh, Mariamne! now for thee

Oh never talk again to me

Oh! snatch’d away in beauty’s bloom

Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth

Oh! weep for those that wept by Babel’s stream

Oh, Wellington! (or ’Villainton’- for Fame

Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations

O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly

On Jordan’s banks the Arab’s camels stray

Our life is twofold: Sleep hath its own world

S

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate

She walks in beauty like the night

Since our Country, our God — Oh, my Sire!

Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!

W

Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword

Were my bosom as false as thou deem’st it to be

We sat down and wept by the waters

What is the hour?

When all around grew drear and dark

When amatory poets sing their loves

When Bishop Berkeley said ’there was no matter

When coldness wraps this suffering clay

When I rov’d a young Highlander o’er the dark heath

When Newton saw an apple fall, he found