Byron.

        Poets they do pursue each theme,
        Under a gentle head of steam,
        Save one who needed fierce fire on,
        The brilliant, pasionate Byron.
        His child Harold's pilgrimage,
        Forever will the world engage;
        He fought with glory to release
        From Turkish yoke the isles of Greece,
        Its glories oft by him were sung,
        This wondrous bard, alas, died young.

James McIntyre

James McIntyre was a Canadian poet, most notable for his poetry concerning cheese, cheese-making, dairying, and dairy products. Often referred to as 'The Cheese Poet,' McIntyre's work is celebrated for its earnestness and unintentional humor, making him both a beloved and an infamous figure in literary circles. He emigrated from Scotland to Canada in 1851 and settled in Ingersoll, Ontario, where he became a successful businessman and community leader.

James McIntyre

Highland Sketches.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Strange Life Preserver.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Local Sketches.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Poets And Philosophers.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Byron.

    He was a god descended from the skies
    To fight the fight of Freedom o'er a grave,
    And consecrate a hope he could not save;
    For he was weak withal, and foolish-wise.
    Dark were his thoughts, and strange his destinies,
    And oftentimes his life he did deprave.
    But all do pity him, though none despise.
    He was a prince of song, though sorrow's slave.
    He ask'd for tears, - and they were tinged with fire;
    He ask'd for love, and love was sold to him.
    He look'd for solace at the goblet's brim,
    And found it not; then wept upon his lyre.
    He sang the songs of all the world's desire, -
    He wears the wreath no rivalry can dim!

Eric Mackay

Don Juan - Dedication

Bob Southey! You're a poet, poet laureate,
And representative of all the race.
Although 'tis true that you turned 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,

Which pye being opened they began to sing'
(This old song and new simile holds good),
'A dainty dish to set before the King'
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food.
And Coleridge too has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumbered with his hood,
Explaining metaphysics to the nation.
I wish he would explain his explanation.

You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know,
At being disappointed in your wish
To superse...

George Gordon Byron

Epitaph On Lord Byron

Lo! Byron's tomb!
            Here, deeply pensive, scan
The greatness, and the littleness of man.
In timeless death here Freedom's Martyr sleeps,
Whom, her lost Champion, Greece, desponding, weeps.
The impassion'd Bard, whose Genius, wing'd with flame,
Swept, like a comet, through the sphere of fame,
Dazzling the astonish'd world, lies buried here.
Thus human Glory ends its bright career.
To Byron what high gifts did heaven impart!
An intellect sublime, a feeling heart;
But ah! his wild desires, his passions strong,
Hurried him irresistibly along
Wherever Pleasure call'd, through good, or ill;
No law could bridle his own proud self-will.
O! had but Virtue ruled his mighty mind,
Byron had been the first of human kind!

Thomas Oldham

On Leaving Newstead Abbey.

Why dost thou build the hall, Son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desart comes: it howls in thy empty court.-OSSIAN. ^[1]


I.

Through thy battlements, Newstead, ^[2] the hollow winds whistle:
Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone to decay;
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way.


2.

Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who, proudly, to battle,
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, ^[3]
The escutcheon and shield, which with ev'ry blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.


3.

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame, in t...

George Gordon Byron

On Leaving N - St - D.

Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle,
For the hall of my fathers is gone to decay;
And in yon once gay garden the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way.

Of the barons of old, who once proudly to battle
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain;
The escutcheon and shield, which with ev'ry blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.

No more does old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame in the breast, for the war laurell'd wreath,
Near Askalon's Towers John of Horiston^[1] slumbers,
Unnerv'd is the hand of his minstrel by death.

Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy,
For the safety of Edward and ENGLAND they fell,
My fathers! the tears...

George Gordon Byron

Byron.

While genius endows the sons of men
With eloquence, or with poetic pen,
It leaves them still the frailties of our frame,
It does not curb, but fans th' unrighteous flame.
It gives a wider, nobler range of thought,
But such advantage, oft, is dearly bought.
Man's lower nature troubles scarce the low,
But, like a fiend, at natures high doth go.
Of such a nature, now, these lines shall tell,
Who wrote full many a line, and wrote them well.
Byron, the noble, sensitive and high,
Whose bosom hath not heav'd for thee a sigh?
Whose breast hath not full often given room
To mournful thoughts, for thy untimely doom?
Thy genius soar'd to regions bright and fair,
And thou, such times, were with thy genius there.
And then thy lofty mind, 'neath passion's sway,
Left its...

Thomas Frederick Young