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Lord Byron (George Gordon) was born in London in January 1788. He published his first poems at tthe age of 19, at 21 started travelling, at 28 left England forever. He died during Greek Independence war in 1824. Most of his work was done during his journeys (1816-24). His most famoous works include Manfred, Cain and Childe Harold. |
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And Thou Art Dead, As Young and Fair By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept Darkness Dear Doctor, I Have Read Your Play The Destruction of Sennacherib Don Juan: Dedication Fare Thee Well Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer The Harp the Monarch Minstrel Swept I Would I Were a Careless Child Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog John Keats Lachin Y Gair Lara: Canto The First (Excerpt) Lines Inscribed Upon a Cup Formed from a Skull Lines to Mr. Hodgson Written on Board the Lisbon Packet Manfred My Soul is Dark Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom On This Day I Complete My Thirty-sixth Year Prometheus Remember Thee! Remember Thee! The Eve of Waterloo She walks in Beauty There be None of Beauty's Daughters We'll go no more a-roving When we Two parted Epistle To Augusta Churchill's Grave A Spirit Passed Before Me On Chillon Stanzas For Music |
When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rest below: When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been: But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first ot welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While man, vain insect! hopes to be for- given, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour, Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Degraded mass of animated dust! Thy love is lust, thy friendship is all a cheat, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on - it honors none you wish to mourn: To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; I never knew but one, - and here he lies. |