Poetry by George Gordon, Lord Byron

George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788 - 1824)

“She Walks in Beauty”

She walks in beauty, like the night

   Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

   Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellow’d to that tender light

   Which heaven 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 dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

   So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

   But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

   A heart whose love is innocent!

“I Would I Were a Careless Child”

I would I were a careless child,

Still dwelling in my Highland cave,

Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave;

The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride

Accords not with the freeborn soul,

Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,

And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

Fortune! take back these cultured lands,

Take back this name of splendid sound!

I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the slaves that cringe around.

Place me among the rocks I love,

Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar;

I ask but this — again to rove

Through scenes my youth hath known before.

Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne’er designed for me:

Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal

The hour when man must cease to be?

Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary scene of bliss:

Truth! — wherefore did thy hated beam

Awake me to a world like this?

I loved — but those I love are gone;

Had friends — my early friends are fled:

How cheerless feels the heart alone,

When all its former hopes are dead!

Though gay companions o’er the bowl

Dispel awhile the sense of ill;

Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,

The heart — the heart — is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,

Have made, though neither friends nor foes,

Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same,

And I will fly the midnight crew,

Where boist’rous joy is but a name.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,

My hope, my comforter, my all!

How cold must be my bosom now,

When e’en thy smiles begin to pall!

Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,

To make that calm contentment mine,

Which virtue know, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men —

I seek to shun, not hate mankind;

My breast requires the sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darken’d mind.

Oh! that to me the wings were given

Which bear the turtle to her nest!

Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,

To flee away, and be at rest.

 

“When We Two Parted”

When we two parted

  In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

  To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

  Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

  Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

  Sunk chill on my brow —

It felt like the warning

  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 name thee before me,

  A knell to mine ear;

A shrudder comes o’er me —

  Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

  Who knew thee so well —

Long, long I shall 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

  After long years,

How should I greet thee? —

  With silence and tears.