And Thou Art Dead as Young and Fair Published
In March 1812 the long poem he had begun in Hellenic republic was released, renamed "Childe Harold'due south Pilgrimage". He said "I woke upward one day and institute myself famous". Byron's life, as well as his work, was in constant turmoil. From his scandalous affairs and troubled marriage, to his interest with the Greek rebellion which led to his untimely death, he was a man consumed past passion.
While in Greece, he succumbed to a terrible fever. His doctors wanted to bleed him, which Byron resisted, saying "If bleeding were efficacious in that location would be a lot of good for you people on a boxing field." Ultimately he became too weak to argue. They bled him for two days and were pleased when his veins ran clear. One of his last lucid remarks, to his valet, was : "My doctors have assassinated me". They may very well take done so. As the embodiment of Romantic rebellion many powerful people wanted Byron dead, the crowned heads of Europe, the Sultan of Turkey and the Pope. On Easter Sunday, 1824, at the age of thirty six, Byron died, during a suitably ferocious thunder storm.
"Simply silent allow me sink to earth,
With no officious mourners well-nigh:
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear."
He did non get this wish. He was surrounded to the last by a babel of weeping servants, helpless body guards and horrified supplicants. He was immediately autopsied and the doctors plant what they were looking for the brain lesions that they believed resulted from his sexual promiscuity. This provided the prove they needed for the necessity of having bled him which probably killed him. Malaria attacks the red blood cells. His lungs were left in Greece, but contrary to his wishes, the rest of him was pickled in spirits and shipped back to England. Westminster Abbey refused to bear his funeral considering he was an unrepentant sinner. Finally, a long cortege followed his funeral carriage north to his internment next to his mother among generations of Byrons.
Byron was built-in with a guild-foot. He was extreme sensitivity about his lameness - in his works short and stout Byron glorified proud and arrogant heroes, who bear one's misfortunes bravely and overcome hardships.
So We'll Go No More a Roving
So we'll get no more a roving Then late into the nighttime, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be nevertheless every bit brilliant. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the center must pause to breathe, And Love itself have residue. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too before long, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon.
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the nighttime Of clement climes and starry skies; And all that's best of nighttime and vivid Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender lite Which sky to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dearest their dwelling house-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, even so eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all beneath, A heart whose love is innocent!
And Thou Art Dead, As Young and Fair
And thou art dead, every bit immature and fair As aught of mortal birth; And form so soft, and charms and so rare, Too before long return'd to World! Though Globe receiv'd them in her bed, And o'er the spot the crowd may tread In carelessness or mirth, There is an heart which could not brook A moment on that grave to look. I will not ask where thou liest low, Nor gaze upon the spot; There flowers or weeds at will may grow, So I behold them non: It is enough for me to prove That what I lov'd, and long must honey, Similar common earth tin can rot; To me there needs no stone to tell, 'T is Nothing that I lov'd and then well. Nonetheless did I dearest thee to the last Equally fervently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now. The love where Decease has gear up his seal, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow: And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or modify, or error in me. The better days of life were ours; The worst tin be simply mine: The dominicus that cheers, the storm that lowers, Shall never more be thine. The silence of that dreamless sleep I envy now too much to weep; Nor need I to repine That all those charms have pass'd abroad, I might take watch'd through long decay. The blossom in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd Must fall the earliest casualty; Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, The leaves must drib away: And nevertheless it were a greater grief To watch information technology withering, leafage by leaf, Than see it pluck'd to-day; Since earthly middle just sick can comport To trace the change to foul from fair. I know not if I could have borne To see thy beauties fade; The night that follow'd such a forenoon Had worn a deeper shade: Thy day without a deject hath pass'd, And thou wert lovely to the last, Extinguish'd, non decay'd; As stars that shoot along the sky Smooth brightest every bit they fall from loftier. Every bit once I wept, if I could weep, My tears might well exist shed, To think I was non nigh to keep One vigil o'er thy bed; To gaze, how fondly! on thy face, To fold thee in a faint embrace, Uphold thy drooping head; And show that dear, however vain, Nor yard nor I tin can experience again. Yet how much less it were to gain, Though thou hast left me complimentary, The loveliest things that all the same remain, Than thus think thee! The all of thine that cannot die Through nighttime and dread Eternity Returns again to me, And more thy buried love endears Than aught except its living years.
Darkness
I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sunday was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy globe Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Forenoon came and went--and came, and brought no twenty-four hours, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: And they did alive by watchfires--and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings--the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd, And men were gather'd round their blazing homes To look over again into each other's face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: A fearful promise was all the world incorporate'd; Forests were assault fire--but hr by 60 minutes They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as past fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and await'd up With mad disquietude on the dull heaven, The mantle of a past world; and then again With curses bandage them down upon the dust, And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd And, terrified, did flutter on the footing, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd And twin'd themselves amidst the multitude, Hissing, merely stingless--they were slain for nutrient. And State of war, which for a moment was no more, Did overabundance himself over again: a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All globe was but one thought--and that was death Firsthand and inglorious; and the pang Of dearth fed upon all entrails--men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre past the meagre were devour'd, Fifty-fifty dogs assail'd their masters, all save i, And he was true-blue to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answer'd not with a caress--he died. The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they rak'd upwardly, And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a niggling life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; and so they lifted up Their eyes equally it grew lighter, and beheld Each other'due south aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died-- Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The globe was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless A lump of decease--a chaos of difficult clay. The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still, And aught stirr'd inside their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts barbarous downwards piecemeal: every bit they dropp'd They slept on the completeness without a surge-- The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd earlier; The winds were wither'd in the brackish air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of assistance from them--She was the Universe.
On This Mean solar day I Complete My Thirty-6 Twelvemonth
'Tis time the center should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to motility: Yet, though I cannot be honey, Still allow me beloved! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine solitary! The burn that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze-- A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous intendance, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. Merely 'tis not thus--and 'tis not here-- Such thoughts should shake my soul nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the imprint, and the field, Glory and Hellenic republic, effectually me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. Awake! (not Greece--she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, Then strike domicile! Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood!--unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If 1000 regrett'st thy youth, why live? The land of honourable death Is here:--upwards to the field, and give Abroad thy breath! Seek out--less oft sought than establish-- A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And have thy rest
Manfred
(Extract: Incantation) When the moon is on the wave, And the glow-worm in the grass, And the meteor on the grave, And the wisp on the morass; When the falling stars are shooting, And the answer'd owls are hooting, And the silent leaves are nonetheless In the shadow of the hill, Shall my soul exist upon thine, With a ability and with a sign. Though thy slumber may be deep, Yet thy spirit shall not sleep; At that place are shades which will not vanish, There are thoughts 1000 canst not banish; By a power to thee unknown, Thou canst never be alone; One thousand art wrapt as with a shroud, Grand art gather'd in a cloud; And for ever shalt thou dwell In the spirit of this spell. Though thou seest me not pass past, Thou shalt feel me with thine eye Every bit a thing that, though unseen, Must exist almost thee, and hath been; And when in that secret dread M hast plough'd around thy head, Thou shalt curiosity I am not As thy shadow on the spot, And the power which thousand dost feel Shall be what one thousand must conceal. And a magic voice and verse Hath baptiz'd thee with a curse; And a spirit of the air Hath begirt thee with a snare; In the wind there is a voice Shall forbid thee to rejoice; And to thee shall night deny All the quiet of her heaven; And the twenty-four hour period shall have a dominicus, Which shall make thee wish information technology washed. From thy false tears I did distil An essence which hath strength to impale; From thy ain heart I then did wring The black claret in its blackest spring; From thy ain smiling I snatch'd the snake, For there it coil'd as in a brake; From thy ain lip I drew the charm Which gave all these their chiefest impairment; In proving every poison known, I plant the strongest was thine own. By thy cold breast and serpent grinning, By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, By that about seeming virtuous middle, By thy shut soul's hypocrisy; By the perfection of thine art Which laissez passer'd for human being thine own heart; By thy please in others' pain, And by thy brotherhood of Cain, I phone call upon thee! and compel Thyself to be thy proper Hell! And on thy caput I pour the vial Which doth devote thee to this trial; Nor to sleep, nor to dice, Shall exist in thy destiny; Though thy death shall nevertheless seem near To thy wish, just as a fear; Lo! the spell at present works effectually thee, And the clankless concatenation hath spring thee; O'er thy heart and brain together Hath the word been pass'd--at present wither!
Impromptus
Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, Patron and publisher of rhymes, For thee the bard upward Pindus climbs, My Murray. To thee, with hope and terror dumb, The unfledged MS. authors come; Thou printest all-and sellest some- My Murray. Upon thy table's baize and then green The terminal new Quarterly is seen,- But where is thy new Magazine, My Murray? Forth thy sprucest bookshelves shine The works thou deemest most divine- The "Art of Cookery,"and mine, My Murray. Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist; And then chiliad hast the "Navy List," My Murray. And Heaven prevent I should conclude Without "the Board of Longitude," Although this narrow paper would, My Murray. When a man hath no liberty to fight for at habitation, Allow him combat for that of his neighbours; Let him recall of the glories of Greece and of Rome, And become knock'd on the caput for his labours. To practice good to mankind is the benevolent program, And is always every bit nobly requited; Then boxing for freedom wherever you can, And, if non shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted.
When We Two Parted
When nosotros ii parted In silence and tears, One-half broken-hearted To sever for years, Stake grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hr foretold sorrow to this. The dew of the forenoon Sunk arctic on my brow- It felt similar the alert Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They proper noun thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me- Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well:- Long, long shall I rue thee, too deeply to tell. In secret we met- In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee Later on long years, How shall I greet thee? With silence and tears.
The Destruction of Sennacherib
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gilded; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the body of water, When the bluish wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at dusk were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Affections of Decease spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but in one case heaved, and for ever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the cream of his gasping lay white on the turf, And common cold equally the spray of the rock-beating surf. And at that place lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted similar snow in the glance of the Lord!
Farewell to the Muse
1000 Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days, Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time nosotros should part; Then rise on the gale this the final of my lays, The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Aloofness's wing. Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, Yet even these themes are departed for ever; No more axle the optics which my dream could inspire, My visions are flown, to render,---alas, never! When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, How vain is the effort delight to prolong! When cold is the dazzler which dwelt in my soul, What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song? Can the lips sing of Dear in the desert alone, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign ? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ? Ah, no! for those hours tin can no longer exist mine. Tin they speak of the friends that I lived only to love? Ah, surely Amore ennobles the strain! But how can my numbers in sympathy move, When I scarcely can hope to behold them once more? Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, And enhance my loud harp to the fame of my Sires? For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the nail--- 'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er; And those who accept heard it will pardon the past, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more. And presently shall its wild erring notes be forgot, Since early on affection and love is o'ercast: Oh! blessed had my Fate been, and happy my lot, Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the concluding. Farewell, my young Muse! since we at present tin can ne'er meet; If our songs have been languid, they surely are few: Allow us hope that the nowadays at least will be sweet--- The present---which seals our eternal Bye.
English language Bards and Scotch Reviewers
Time was, ere nonetheless in these degenerate days Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, When sense and wit with poesy centrolineal, No fabl'd graces, flourish'd side past side; From the same fount their inspiration drew, And, rear'd past gustation, bloom'd fairer every bit they grew. Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain; A polish'd nation's praise aspir'd to claim, And rais'd the people's, as the poet'southward fame. Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song, In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly stiff. Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or Otway's melt-- For nature then an English audience felt. But why these names, or greater nevertheless, retrace, When all to feebler bards resign their place? Withal to such times our lingering looks are cast, When gustatory modality and reason with those times are past. Now wait around, and turn each trifling page, Survey the precious works that delight the historic period; This truth at least let satire's self permit, No dearth of bards can exist complain'd of now. The loaded press beneath her labour groans, And printers' devils shake their weary bones; While Southey'due south epics cram the creaking shelves, And Niggling'due south lyrics smoothen in hot-press'd twelves. Thus saith the Preacher: "Nought beneath the sun Is new"; yet notwithstanding from alter to change nosotros run: What varied wonders tempt united states of america as they pass! The moo-cow-pox, tractors, galvanism and gas, In turns appear, to brand the vulgar stare, Till the swoln chimera bursts--and all is air! Nor less new schools of Poesy arise, Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize: O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail; Each country volume-social club bows the human knee to Baal, And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, Erects a shrine and idol of its own; Some leaden calf--but whom it matters not, From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott. Behold! in various throngs the scribbling coiffure, For detect eager, pass in long review: Each spurs his jaded Pegasus quickly, And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race; Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode; And tales of terror jostle on the route; Immeasurable measures move along; For simpering folly loves a varied song, To foreign mysterious dulness still the friend, Admires the strain she cannot cover. Thus Lays of Minstrels--may they be the last!-- On half-strung harps whine mournful to the nail. While mount spirits prate to river sprites, That dames may mind to the sound at nights; And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner'south brood, Decoy young edge-nobles through the wood, And skip at every stride, Lord knows how high, And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; While high-born ladies in their magic cell, Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, And fight with honest men to shield a knave. Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The aureate-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a felon, withal but one-half a knight, The gibbet or the field prepar'd to grace; A mighty mixture of the bang-up and base. And call up'st thou, Scott! by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy dried romance, Though Murray with his Miller may combine To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? No! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their erstwhile honor fade. Let such forego the poet's sacred name, Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain! And sadly gaze on aureate they cannot proceeds! Such exist their meed, such nonetheless the just reward Of prostituted muse and hireling bard! For this nosotros spurn Apollo's venal son, And bid a long "skillful nighttime to Marmion." These are the themes that claim our plaudits now; These are the bards to whom the muse must bow; While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. The time has been, when yet the muse was young, When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, An epic scarce 10 centuries could merits, While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic proper name; The work of each immortal bard appears The single wonder of a thousand years. Empires have moulder'd from the confront of earth, Tongues accept expir'd with those who gave them nativity, Without the celebrity such a strain can give, As even in ruin bids the language live. Non then with us, though minor bards, content On one great work a life of labour spent: With hawkeye pinion soaring to the skies, Behold the ballad-monger Southey ascent! To him let Camo�ns, Milton, Tasso yield, Whose annual strains, like armies, have the field. First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, The scourge of England and the avowal of French republic! Though burnt past wicked Bedford for a witch, Behold her statue plac'd in glory's niche; Her fetters burst, and but releas'd from prison, A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, Arabia'due south monstrous, wild and wondrous son: Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew More mad magicians than the world always knew. Immortal hero! all thy foes o'ercome, For e'er reign--the rival of Tom Pollex! Since startled metre fled before thy face, Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race! Well might triumphant genii carry thee hence, Illustrious conquistador of common sense! Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales; Tells united states of america strange tales, every bit other travellers do, More than onetime than Mandeville's, and not so true. Oh Southey! Southey! finish thy varied song! A bard may chant likewise often and too long: Every bit grand fine art stiff in verse, in mercy, spare! A fourth, alas! were more than we could acquit. But if, in spite of all the earth tin can say, Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; If nonetheless in Berkley ballads nigh uncivil, Thou wilt devote sometime women to the devil, The infant unborn thy dread intent may rue: "God help thee," Southey, and thy readers as well. Next comes the deadening disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay As soft equally evening in his favourite May, Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and trouble, And quit his books, for fear of growing double"; Who, both by axiom and example, shows That prose is poetry, and verse is only prose; Convincing all, past sit-in evidently, Poetic souls delight in prose insane; And Christmas stories tortur'd into rhyme Contain the essence of the true sublime. Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of "an idiot boy"; A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his style, And, like his bard, confounded nighttime with solar day; And then close on each pathetic part he dwells, And each take chances so sublimely tells, That all who view the "idiot in his celebrity" Conceive the bard the hero of the story. Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnotic'd hither, To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? Though themes of innocence amuse him best, Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a pixy for a muse, Even so none in lofty numbers tin can surpass The bard who soars to elegize an ass. So well the subject suits his noble mind, He brays the laureat of the long-ear'd kind.
Loves Final Cheerio
The roses of Love glad the garden of life, Though nurtur'd 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, Till Fourth dimension crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, Or prunes them for ever, in Love's final good day! In vain, with endearments, nosotros soothe the distressing centre, In vain do we vow for an age to be true; The hazard of an 60 minutes may command us to part, Or Death disunite us, in Love'due south last adieu! Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast, Will whisper, �Our meeting we withal may renew: With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow's represt, Nor taste we the poisonous substance, of Beloved's last adieu! Oh! mark you lot yon pair, in the sunshine of youth, Beloved twin'd round their childhood his flow'rs every bit they grew; They flourish awhile, in the flavour of truth, Till chill'd by the wintertime of Love's last good day! Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its style, Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue? Notwithstanding why do I enquire?---to lark a casualty, Thy reason has perish'd, with Love's last adieu! Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind? From cities to caves of the forest he flew: At that place, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind; The mountains reverberate Love's last adieu! At present Detest rules a heart which in Love's like shooting fish in a barrel chains, Once Passion's tumultuous blandishments knew; Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins, He ponders, in frenzy, on Love's terminal adieu! How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel! His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, And dreads not the anguish of Love's last adieu! Youth flies, life decays, fifty-fifty hope is o'ercast; No more, with Beloved's former devotion, we sue: He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast; The shroud of affection is Love's final adieu! In this life of probation, for rapture divine, Astrea declares that some penance is due; From him, who has worshipp'd at Love'southward gentle shrine, The atonement is ample, in Love's concluding adieu! Who kneels to the God, on his altar of low-cal Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew: His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight, His cypress, the garland of Love'southward last adieu!
George Gordon, lord Byron, Letters and Journals of Lord Byron, ed. Thomas Moore (London: J. Murray, 1830). E-10 2736 Fisher Rare Volume Library (Toronto).
Byron, Works, 17 vols. (London: John Murray, 1832-33). PR 4351 M6 1832 ROBA.
George Gordon, lord Byron, Hebrew Melodies (London: J. Murray, 1815). B-10 3742 Fisher Rare Book Library (Toronto). First Publication Engagement: 1815.
Byron, Works, 17 vols. (London: John Murray, 1832-33). PR 4351 M6 1832 ROBA. Offset Publication Engagement: 1812.
Byron, Works, 17 vols. (London: John Murray, 1832-33). PR 4351 M6 1832 ROBA. Morning Relate (October. 29, 1824).
Source: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/famous/lordbyron.html
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