On My Thirty-Third Birthday, January 22, 1821
Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragg'd to three-and-thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing--except thirty-three.
On The Birth Of John William Rizzo Hoppner
His father's sense, his mother's grace,
In him I hope, will always fit so;
With--still to keep him in good case--
The health and appetite of Rizzo.
My Epitaph
Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove,
To keep my Lamp in strongly strove;
But Romanelli was so stout,
He beat all three, and blew it out.
Oct. 1810.
And yet a little tumult, now and then, is an agreeable quickener of sensation such as a revolution, a battle, or an adventure of any lively description.
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
catren by Byron from Stanzas to Augusta
Added by Lucian Velea
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On My Wedding-Day
Here's a happy new year! but with reason
I beg you'll permit me to say
Wish me many returns of the season,
But as few as you please of the dy.
January 2, 1820.
What is hope? nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
Byron in Letter to Thomas Moore
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On Moore's Last Operatic Farce, Or Farcical Opera
Good plays are scarce:
So Moore writes farce.
The poet's fame grows brittle--
We knew before
That Little's Moore,
But now 'tis Moore that's little.
September 14, 1811.
I feel my immortality over sweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, - and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears, this truth, - thou livest forever
Impromptu
Beneath Blessington's eyes
The reclaimed Paradise
Should be free as the former from evil;
But if the new Eve
For an Apple should grieve,
What mortal would not play the Devil.
