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The Niobe of nations! there she stands.

Lord Byron

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Lord Byron
Age: 36 †
Born: 1788
Born: January 22
Died: 1824
Died: April 19
Autobiographer
Baron Byron
Diarist
Librettist
Lyricist
Military Personnel
Playwright
Poet
Politician
Translator
Writer
London
England
George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Byron
6th Baron Byron
Noel Byron
Xhorxh Bajroni
Bajron
George Gordon
Jerzy Gordon Byron
Pai-lun
Baron Byron George Gordon Byron
6th Baron Byron George Gordon Noel
Byron
George Gordon Byron
Baron Byron
6th Baron Byron George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Noël Byron Byron
Bayrěn
Payrěn
George Gordon By
Nations
Stands

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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
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I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be let it end.
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Land of lost gods and godlike men.
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One certainly has a soul but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.
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Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, But has not answer'd like the apparatus Of the Humane Society's beginning, By which men are unsuffocated gratis: What wondrous new machines have late been spinning.
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If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
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I slept and dreamt that life was beauty I woke and found that life was duty.
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Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe... Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties - give me a cigar!
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O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
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Tis strange,-but true for truth is always strange Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
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Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
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Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.
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I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.
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And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.
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I hate all pain, Given or received we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.
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The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains--beautiful! I linger yet with nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man, and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness I learned the language of another world.
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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.
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I cannot conceive why people will always mix up my own character and opinions with those of the imaginary beings which, as a poet, I have the right and liberty to draw.
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Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
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