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The waters broke my hollow trance, And with a temporary strength My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. My courser's broad breast proudly braves, And dashes off the ascending waves, And onward we advance! We reach the slippery shore at length, A haven I but little prized, For all behind was dark and drear, And all before was night and fear.
How many hours of night or day In those suspended pangs I lay, I could not tell; I scarcely knew If this were human breath I drew. We gain the top: a boundless plain Spreads through the shadow of the night; And onward, onward, onward, seems, Like precipices in our dreams, To stretch beyond the sight; And here and there a speck of white, Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, In masses broke into the light, As rose the moon upon my right: But nought distinctly seen In the dim waste would indicate The omen of a cottage gate; No twinkling taper from afar Stood like a hospitable star; Not even an ignis-fatuus rose To make him merry with my woes; That very cheat had cheer'd me then!
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Although detected, welcome still, Reminding me, through every ill, Of the abodes of men. A sickly infant had had power To guide him forward in that hour But useless all to me: His new-born tameness nought avail'd -- My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd, Perchance, had they been free.
With feeble effort still I tried To rend the bonds so starkly tied, But still it was in vain; My limbs were only wrung the more, And soon the idle strife gave o'er, Which but prolong'd their pain: The dizzy race seem'd almost done, Although no goal was nearly won: Some streaks announced the coming sun -- How slow, alas!
He came! Methought that mist of dawning gray Would never dapple into day; How heavily it roll'd away -- Before the eastern flame Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, And call'd the radiance from their cars, And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne, With lonely lustre, all his own. What booted it to traverse o'er Plain, forest, river?
Man nor brute, Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, Lay in the wild luxuriant soil; No sign of travel, none of toil; The very air was mute; And not an insect's shrill small horn, Nor matin bird's new voice was borne From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, Panting as if his heart would burst, The weary brute still stagger'd on; And still we were -- or seem'd -- alone. At length, while reeling on our way, Methought I heard a courser neigh, From out yon tuft of blackening firs. Is it the wind those branches stirs? No, no! From out the forest prance A trampling troop; I see them come!
In one vast squadron they advance! I strove to cry -- my lips were dumb. The steeds rush on in plunging pride: But where are they the reins to guide? A thousand horse, and none to ride! With flowing tail, and flying mane, Wide nostrils never stretch'd by pain, Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, A thousand horse, the wild, the free, Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on, As if our faint approach to meet; The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, A moment staggering, feebly fleet, A moment, with a faint low neigh, He answer'd, and then fell; With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, And reeking limbs immovable, His first and last career is done!
On came the troop -- they saw him stoop, They saw me strangely bound along His back with many a bloody thong: They stop, they start, they snuff the air, Gallop a moment here and there, Approach, retire, wheel round and round, Then plunging back with sudden bound, Headed by one black mighty steed, Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, Without a single speck or hair Of white upon his shaggy hide; They snort, they foam, neigh, swerve aside, And backward to the forest fly, By instinct, from a human eye.
Greeks honour fallen hero Byron with a day of his own
They left me there to my despair, Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, Relieved from that unwonted weight, From whence I could not extricate Nor him nor me -- and there we lay, The dying on the dead! I little deem'd another day Would see my houseless, helpless head. And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, They who have revell'd beyond measure In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, Die calm, or calmer, oft than he Whose heritage was misery: For he who hath in turn run through All that was beautiful and new, Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; And, save the future, which is view'd Not quite as men are base or good.
But as their nerves may be endued, With nought perhaps to grieve: The wretch still hopes his woes must end, And Death, whom he should deem his friend, Appears, to his distemper'd eyes, Arrived to rob him of his prize, The tree of his new Paradise. To-morrow would have given him all, Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall; To-morrow would have been the first Of days no more deplored or curst, But bright, and long, and beckoning years, Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, Guerdon of many a painful hour; To-morrow would have given him power To rule, to shine, to smite, to save -- And must it dawn upon his grave?
I know no more -- my latest dream Is something of a lovely star Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, And went and came with wandering beam, And of the cold dull, swimming, dense Sensation of recurring sense, And then subsiding back to death, And then again a little breath, A little thrill, a short suspense, An icy sickness curdling o'er My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain -- A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, A sigh, and nothing more.
Do I see A human face look down on me? And doth a roof above me close? Do these limbs on a couch repose? Is this a chamber where I lie? And is it mortal yon bright eye, That watches me with gentle glance? Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine. You Laugh Medicine Always Cheap. The busy have no time for tears.
Time Busy Tears No Time.
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; men love in haste but they detest at leisure. Love Men Hatred Pleasure. There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.
Nature Love Music Sea. The dew of compassion is a tear. Compassion Sympathy Dew Tear. Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain.
Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore. Man Ocean Blue Dark. Yes, love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Allah given to lift from earth our low desire.yoku-nemureru.com/wp-content/desktop/3755-how-i-locate.php
Lord Byron in popular culture - Wikipedia
Love Light Fire Allah. Sincerity may be humble but she cannot be servile. Humble Be Humble Sincerity She. I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.
Top 10 Lord Byron Quotes. View the list. There are four questions of value in life, Don Octavio. What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made?
What is worth living for and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love. Facing mounting pressure as a result of his failed marriage, scandalous affairs and huge debts, Byron left England in April and never returned. Byron travelled on to Italy, where he was to live for more than six years.
In , while staying in Venice, he began an affair with Teresa Guiccioli, the wife of an Italian nobleman. It was in this period that Byron wrote some of his most famous works, including 'Don Juan' In July , Byron left Italy to join the Greek insurgents who were fighting a war of independence against the Ottoman Empire. On 19 April he died from fever at Missolonghi, in modern day Greece. His death was mourned throughout Britain. His body was brought back to England and buried at his ancestral home in Nottinghamshire.