Lord Byron Quotes
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So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.
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I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
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Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
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Seek out - less often sought than found -A Soldier's Grave, for thee the best;Then look around and choose thy Ground,And take thy Rest.
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Where may the wearied eye repose When gazing on the Great; Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state? Yes - one - the first - the last - the best - The Cincinnatus of the West,Whom envy dared not hate,Bequeath'd the name of Washington,To make man blush there was but one!
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As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.
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Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.
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History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page.
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Tyranny Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem None rebels except subjects? The prince who Neglects or violates his trust is more A brigand than the robber-chief.
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Who track the steps of glory to the grave.
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A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.
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Who hath not proved how feebly words essayTo fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray? Who doth not feel, until his failing sightFaints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart, confessThe might, the majesty of loveliness?
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As the liberty lads o'er the sea Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, So we, boys, we Shall die fighting or live free, And down with all kings but King Ludd!
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Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge.
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How my soul hates This language, Which makes life itself a lie,Flattering dust with eternity.
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I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
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The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!
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This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.
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My native land, good night!
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The poor dog, in life the firmest friend,The first to welcome, foremost to defend.