Translation Of The Epitaph On Virgil And Tibullus, By Domitius Marsus.

He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of Love,
By Death's unequal^[1] hand alike controul'd,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

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

To D--- [1]

George Gordon Byron, Simple Poetry

Lines Written Beneath An Elm In The Churchyard Of Harrow. [1]

George Gordon Byron, Simple Poetry

Farewell To The Muse.

George Gordon Byron, Simple Poetry

Sonnet On The Nuptials Of The Marquis Antonio Cavalli With The Countess Clelia Rasponi Of Ravenna.[589]

George Gordon Byron, Simple Poetry

English

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Prometheus.[64]

I.

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?^[65]
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.

II.

Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,^[66]
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth cr...

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

Translation From Horace.

        Justum et tenacem propositi virum.

        HOR. 'Odes', iii. 3. I.


1.

The man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can controul;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow
    Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
    By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain.


2.

Aye, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,
    He would, unmov'd, unaw'd, behold;
The flames of an expiring world,
    Again in crashing chaos roll'd,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd,
Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd ...

George Gordon Byron

To Mary.

1.

Rack'd by the flames of jealous rage,
By all her torments deeply curst,
Of hell-born passions far the worst,
What hope my pangs can now assuage?

2.

I tore me from thy circling arms,
To madness fir'd by doubts and fears,
Heedless of thy suspicious tears,
Nor feeling for thy feign'd alarms.

3.

Resigning every thought of bliss,
Forever, from your love I go,
Reckless of all the tears that flow,
Disdaining thy polluted kiss.

4.

No more that bosom heaves for me,
On it another seeks repose,
Another riot's on its snows,
Our bonds are broken, both are free.

5.

No more with mutual love we burn,
No more the genial couch we bless,
Dissolving in the fond caress;
Our love o'erth...

George Gordon Byron

To Virgil

I.

Roman Virgil, thou that singest
Ilions lofty temples robed in fire,
Ilion falling, Rome arising,
wars, and filial faith, and Didos pyre;

II.

Landscape-lover, lord of language
more than he that sang the Works and Days,
All the chosen coin of fancy
flashing out from many a golden phrase;

III.

Thou that singest wheat and woodland,
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd;
All the charm of all the Muses
often flowering in a lonely word;

IV.

Poet of the happy Tityrus
piping underneath his beechen bowers;
Poet of the poet-satyr
whom the laughing shepherd bound with flowers;

V.

Chanter of the Pollio, glorying
in the blissful years again to be,
Summers of the snakeless m...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Ode To A Lady Whose Lover Was Killed By A Ball, Which At The Same Time Shivered A Portrait Next His Heart.

Motto.

On peut trouver des femmes qui n'ont jamais eu de galanterie, mais il est rare d'en trouver qui n'en aient jamais eu qu'une. - [Réflexions ... du Duc de la Rochefoucauld, No. lxxiii.]

1.

Lady! in whose heroic port
And Beauty, Victor even of Time,
And haughty lineaments, appear
Much that is awful, more that's dear -
Wherever human hearts resort
There must have been for thee a Court,
And Thou by acclamation Queen,
Where never Sovereign yet had been.
That eye so soft, and yet severe,
Perchance might look on Love as Crime;
And yet - regarding thee more near -
The traces of an unshed tear
Compressed back to the heart,
And mellowed Sadness in thine air,
Which shows that Love hath once been there,
To those who w...

George Gordon Byron