george gordon byron

Astraea aesthetic, greek mythology (x)

“The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the Music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonised the whole —
And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!” 

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 shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I 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.
—  Lord Byron, “when we two parted”
i know not if i could have borne
to see thy beauties fade;
the night that follow’d such a morn
had worn a deeper shade:
thy day without a cloud hath past,
and thou wert lovely to the last;
extinguish’d, not decay’d;
as stars that shoot along the sky
shine brightest as they fall from high.
— 

“and thou art dead, as young and fair”

(stanza six)

- Lord Byron, 1812.

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 mellowed to that tender light
  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
  Had half impaired 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!

By Lord Byron, born this day, January 22, 1788, in Dover, United Kingdom.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on 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,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
—  George Gordon Byron (born January 22, 1788), Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto IV, Verse 178
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
        To render with thy precepts less
        The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse
        Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
        A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
        To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
        A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself—and equal to all woes,
        And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
        Its own concenter’d recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.
—  Excerpt from Prometheus ~ by Lord Byron