On A Change Of Masters At A Great Public School. [1]

Where are those honours, IDA! once your own,
When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne?
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,
Hail'd a Barbarian in her Cæsar's place,
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate,
And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate.
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul,
Pomposus holds you in his harsh controul;
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd,
With florid jargon, and with vain parade;
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules,
(Such as were ne'er before enforc'd in schools.)
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws,
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause;
With him the same dire fate, attending Rome,
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom:
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame,
No trace of science left you, but the name,

George Gordon Byron

George Gordon Byron, commonly known as Lord Byron, was a British poet and leading figure in the Romantic movement. He is regarded as one of the greatest British poets and remains widely read and influential. Among his best-known works are the lengthy narrative poems Don Juan and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, and the short lyric She Walks in Beauty. Byron's personal life was marked by scandal and he was famously described by Lady Caroline Lamb as "mad, bad, and dangerous to know."

George Gordon Byron

Fragment. Written Shortly After The Marriage Of Miss Chaworth. [1]

George Gordon Byron, Simple Poetry

Lachin Y Gair. [1]

George Gordon Byron, Simple Poetry

To The Sighing Strephon. [1]

George Gordon Byron, Simple Poetry

To A Lady Who Presented To The Author A Lock Of Hair Braided With His Own, And Appointed A Night In December To Meet Him In The Garden. [1]

George Gordon Byron, 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.

Thoughts Suggested By A College Examination.

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
Magnus ^[1] his ample front sublime uprears:
Plac'd on his chair of state, he seems a God,
While Sophs ^[2] and Freshmen tremble at his nod;
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom,
His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules.

Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried,
Though little vers'd in any art beside;
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen,
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken.

What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord pil'd the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France:
Though marvellin...

George Gordon Byron

To The Duke Of Dorset. [1]

Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd,
Exploring every path of Ida's glade;
Whom, still, affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend,
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command; ^[2]
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne.
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul
To shun fair science, or evade controul;
Though passive tutors, ^[3] fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the kne...

George Gordon Byron

Soliloquy Of A Bard In The Country. [1]

'Twas now the noon of night, and all was still,
Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill.
In vain he calls each Muse in order down,
Like other females, these will sometimes frown;
He frets, be fumes, and ceasing to invoke
The Nine, in anguish'd accents thus he spoke:
Ah what avails it thus to waste my time,
To roll in Epic, or to rave in Rhyme?
What worth is some few partial readers' praise.
If ancient Virgins croaking 'censures' raise?
Where few attend, 'tis useless to indite;
Where few can read, 'tis folly sure to write;
Where none but girls and striplings dare admire,
And Critics rise in every country Squire -
But yet this last my candid Muse admits,
When Peers are Poets, Squires may well be Wits;
When schoolboys vent their amorous flames in verse,
Matron...

George Gordon Byron

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

Granta. A Medley.

[Greek: Argureais logchaisi machou kai panta krataeseo.] ^[1]

(Reply of the Pythian Oracle to Philip of Macedon.)


1.

Oh! could LE SAGE'S ^[2] demon's gift
Be realis'd at my desire,
This night my trembling form he'd lift
To place it on St. Mary's spire.


2.

Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls,
Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls,
The price of venal votes to pay.


3.

Then would I view each rival wight,
PETTY and PALMERSTON survey;
Who canvass there, with all their might,
Against the next elective day. ^[3]


4.

Lo! candidates and voters lie
All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number!
A race renown'd for piety,<...

George Gordon Byron

Elegy On Newstead Abbey. [1]

"It is the voice of years, that are gone! they roll before me, with all their deeds."

Ossian.



1.

NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!
Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S ^[2] pride!
Of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister'd tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,


2.

Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall,
Than modern mansions, in their pillar'd state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.


3.

No mail-clad Serfs, ^[3] obedient to their Lord,
In grim array, the crimson cross ^[4] demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board,
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band.


4.
...

George Gordon Byron