George Gordon, Lord Byron > Principal Works > Selected Poems > Links

Selected Poems:   (arranged by First Line)   (OR Alphabetically by Title)

Adieu, thou Hill! where early joy spread roses o'er my brow
Ah! heedless girl! why thus disclose what ne’er was meant for other ears
And thou art dead, as young and fair as aught of mortal birth
And thou wert sad—yet I was not with thee!
And wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! speak those words again
As the liberty lads o’er the sea bought their freedom, and cheaply
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold
Away, away, ye notes of woe! Be silent, thou once soothing strain
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance, those tissues of falsehood
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye garden of roses!
Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, where Pindus’ mountains rise
Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind; I cannot deny such a precept
Dear Doctor, I have read your play, which is a good one in its way
Dear Long, in this sequester’d scene, while all around in slumber lie
The Devil return’d to hell by two, and he stay’d at home till five
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray’d
Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead, wafting destruction o’er thy charms
During the short time I recently passed in Nottingham
Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, who to woman deny
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art
Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, and health and youth possess’d me
Fare thee well! and if for ever, still for ever, fare thee well
Farewell! if ever fondest prayer for other’s weal availed on high
Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear’st thou the accents of despair?
Few years have pass’d since thou and I were firmest friends
Francisca walks in the shadow of night, but it is not to gaze
Friend of my youth! when young we roved, like striplings mutually beloved
From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome, I beheld thee, Oh Sion!
The Gods of old are silent on their shore, since the great Pan expired
The harp the monarch minstrel swept, the King of men, the loved of Heaven
High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, Magnus his ample front sublime
Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren, where my thoughtless childhood stray’d
How sweetly shines through azure skies, the lamp of heaven on Lora’s shore
Hush’d are the winds, and still the evening gloom, not e’en a zephyr
Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, our embargo’s off at last
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
I saw thee weep—the big bright tear came o’er that eye of blue
I stood beside the grave of him who blazed the comet of a season
I watched thee when the foe was at our side, ready to strike at him
I would I were a careless child, still dwelling in my Highland cave
If that high world—which lies beyond our own, surviving love endears
In law an infant, and in years a boy, in mind a slave to every vicious joy
In thee I fondly hoped to clasp a friend whom death alone could sever
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung
It is the hour when from the boughs the nightingale’s high note is heard
It is the hour when from the boughs the nightingale’s high note is heard
The King was on his throne, the Satraps throng’d the hall
The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left shall never part from mine
Lesbia! since far from you I’ve ranged, our souls with fond affection glow not
Let Folly smile, to view the names of thee and me in friendship twined
Maid of Athens, ere we part, give, oh, give back my heart!
Marion! why that pensive brow? What disgust to life hast thou?
Montgomery! true, the common lot of mortals lies in Lethe’s wave
The Moorish King rides up and down through Granada’s royal town
Muse of the many-twinkling feet! whose charms are now extended up
My boat is on the shore, and my bark is on the sea
My hair is grey, but not with years, nor grew it white in a single night
My Sister! my sweet Sister! if a name dearer and purer were, it should be thine
My soul is dark—oh! quickly string the harp I yet can brook to hear
Never love unless you can bear with all the faults of a man!
Newstead! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome! Religion’s shrine!
No specious splendour of this stone endears it to my memory ever
Oh! could Le Sage’s demon’s gift be realized at my desire
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire, with bright, but mild affection shine
Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear! What fruitless tears have bathed
O! had my Fate been join’d with thine, as once this pledge appear’d a token
Oh, Mariamne! now for thee the heart of which thou bled’st is bleeding
Oh never talk again to me of northern climes and British ladies
Oh! snatch’d away in beauty’s bloom, on thee shall press no ponderous tomb
Oh! Weep for those that wept by Babel’s stream
Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other
On Jordan’s banks the Arab’s camels stray
One struggle more, and I am free from pangs that rend my heart in twain
Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world, a boundary between the things
Parent of golden dreams, Romance! Auspicious Queen of childish joys
Remember him, whom Passion’s power severely—deeply—vainly proved
Remember thee! remember thee! till Lethe quench life’s burning stream
Remind me not, remind me not, of those beloved, those vanish’d hours
River, that rollest by the ancient walls, where dwells the Lady of my love
The roses of Love glad the garden of life, though nurtur’d ’mid weeds
She walks in Beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies
Since our Country—our God—Oh my Sire—demand that thy daughter expire
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, along Morea’s hills the setting sun
So, we’ll go no more a-roving so late into the night
A spirit passed before me: I beheld the face of immortality unveil’d
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, swept by the breeze
Start not—nor deem my spirit fled; on me behold the only skull from which
Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, patron and publisher of rhymes
Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star! whose tearful beam glows
Sweet girl! though only once we met, that meeting I shall ne’er forget
There be none of Beauty’s daughters with a magic like thee
There is a mystic thread of life so dearly wreath’d with mine alone
There was a time, I need not name, since it will ne’er forgotten be
Thine eyes’ blue tenderness, thy long fair hair
Think’st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, suffus’d in tears
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair, is mine, sweet girl!
This faint resemblance of thy charms, though strong as mortal art could give
This votive pledge of fond esteem, perhaps, dear girl! for me thou’lt prize
Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, to those thyself so fondly sought
Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy’s days
Thou whose spell can raise the dead, bid the prophet’s form appear.
Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, yet Europe doubtless
Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle
Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe
Thy days are done—thy fame begun—thy country’s strains record
Time! on whose arbitrary wing the varying hours must flag or fly
’Tis done—and shivering in the gale the bark unfurls her snowy sail
’Tis done—but yesterday a King! and armed with Kings to strive
’Tis done!—I saw it in my dreams; no more with Hope the future beams
’Tis time the heart should be unmoved, since others it hath ceased to move
’Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout all countries
Titan! to whose immortal eyes the sufferings of mortality
Since now the hour is come at last, when you must quit your anxious lover
These locks, which fondly thus entwine, in firmer chains our hearts confine
To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell
Warriors and Chiefs! should the shaft or the sword pierce me
We sate down and wept by the waters of Babel, and thought of the day
Were my bosom as false as thou deem’st it to be, I need not have wander’d
What are to me those honours or renown past or to come
What matter the pangs of a husband and father if his sorrows in exile
When coldness wraps this suffering clay, ah! whither strays the immortal
When Dryden’s fool, “unknowing what he sought”
When Friendship or Love our sympathies move
When I dream that you love me, you’ll surely forgive
When I rov’d a young Highlander o’er the dark heath, and climb’d
When some proud son of man returns to earth, unknown to glory
When Time, or soon or late, shall bring the dreamless sleep that lulls the dead
When, to their airy hall, my father’s voice shall call my spirit
When we two parted in silence and tears, half broken-hearted
Whene’er I view those lips of thine, their hue invites my fervent kiss
Where are those honours, Ida! once you own, when Probus fill’d
Who killed John Keats? “I,” says the Quarterly, so savage and Tartarly
The wild Gazelle on Judah’s hills, exulting yet may bound, and drink
Without a stone to mark the spot, and say, what Truth might well have said
Woman! experience might have told me, that all must love thee
Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov’d recollection embitters the present
You has ask’d for a verse;—the request in a rhymer ’twere strange to deny
Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend