The following 99 quotes match your criteria:
| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For other’s weal avail’d on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky. |
| Farewell! if ever fondest Prayer.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
’T is pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print;
A book ’s a book, although there ’s nothing in ’t. |
| English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 51.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
As soon
Seek roses in December, ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that ’s false, before
You trust in critics. |
| English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 75.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
So the struck eagle, stretch’d upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View’d his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing’d the shaft that quiver’d in his heart. |
| English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 826.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires,
And decorate the verse herself inspires:
This fact, in virtue’s name, let Crabbe attest,—
Though Nature’s sternest painter, yet the best. |
| English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 839.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 9.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
Still from the fount of joy’s delicious springs
Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto i. Stanza 82.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
None are so desolate but something dear,
Dearer than self, possesses or possess’d
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto ii. Stanza 24.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
But ’midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world’s tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto ii. Stanza 26.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth!
Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great! |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto ii. Stanza 73.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 2.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
I am as a weed
Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam to sail
Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 2.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
He who grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 5.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
Years steal
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb,
And life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 8.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with i |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 21.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it?—No! ’t was but the wind,
Or the car rattling o’er the stony street.
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleas |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 22.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind
Must look down on the hate of those below. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 45.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
But there are wanderers o’er Eternity
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor’d ne’er shall be. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 70.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
All is concentr’d in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 89.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
The sky is changed,—and such a change! O night
And storm and darkness! ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 92.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
I stood
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iii. Stanza 113.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 3.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
The thorns which I have reap’d are of the tree
I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed.
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 10.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo,
The octogenarian chief, Byzantium’s conquering foe! |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 12.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew,
The mourn’d, the loved, the lost,—too many, yet how few! |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 24.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
Parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till—’t is gone, and all is gray. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 29.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 98.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair
As thine ideal breast. |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 115.
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| Author: George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron |
There were his young barbarians all at play;
There was their Dacian mother: he, their sire,
Butcher’d to make a Roman holiday! |
| Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto iv. Stanza 141.
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