| But now at thirty years my hair is grey— |
| (I wonder what it
will be like at forty ? |
| I thought of a peruke the other day—) |
| My heart is not
much greener ; and, in short, I |
| Have squandered my whole summer while ’twas
May, |
| And feel no more
the spirit to retort ; I |
| Have spent my life, both interest and
principal, |
And deem not, what I deemed, my soul
invincible.
|
| No more—no more—Oh ! never more on me |
| The freshness of
the heart can fall like dew, |
| Which out of all the lovely things we see |
| Extracts emotions
beautiful and new ; |
| Hived in our bosoms like the bag o’ the
bee. |
| Think’st thou the
honey with those objects grew ? |
| Alas ! ’twas not in them, but in thy power |
To double even the sweetness of a flower.
|
| No more—no more—Oh! never more my heart, |
| Canst thou be my
sole world, my universe ! |
| Once all in all, but now a thing apart, |
| Thou canst not be
my blessing or my curse : |
| The illusion’s gone for ever, and thou art |
| Insensible, I
trust, but none the worse, |
| And in thy stead I’ve got a deal of
judgement, |
Thou Heaven knows how it ever found a
lodgement.
|
| My days of love are over ; me no more |
| The charms of
maid, wife, and still less of widow, |
| Can make the fool of which they made
before,— |
| In short, I must
not lead the life I did do ; |
| The credulous hope of mutual minds is o’er, |
| The copious use of
claret is forbid too, |
| So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, |
I think I must take up with avarice.
|
| Ambition was my idol, which was broken |
| Before the shrines
of Sorrow, and of Pleasure ; |
| And the two last have left me many a token |
| O’er which
reflection may be made at leisure : |
| Now, like Friar Bacon’s Brazen Head, I’ve
spoken, |
| ‘Time is, Time
was, Time’s past’ : a chymic treasure |
| Is glittering Youth, which I have spent
betimes— |
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
|
| What is the end of Fame ? ’tis but to fill |
| A certain portion
of uncertain paper : |
| Some liken it to climbing up a hill, |
| Whose summit, like
all hills, is lost in vapour ; |
| For this men write, speak, preach, and
heroes kill, |
| And bards burn
what they call their ‘midnight taper’, |
| To have, when the original is dust, |
A name, a wretched picture and worse bust.
|
| What are the hopes of man ? Old Egypt’s
King |
| Cheops erected the
first Pyramid |
| And largest, thinking it was just the thing |
| To keep his memory
whole, and mummy hid ; |
| But somebody or other rummaging, |
| Burglariously
broke his coffin’s lid : |
| Let not a monument give you or me hopes, |
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.
|
| But I, being fond of true philosophy, |
| Say very often to
myself, ‘Alas! |
| All things that have been born were born to
die, |
| And flesh (which
Death mows down to hay) is grass ; |
| You’ve passed your youth not so
unpleasantly, |
| And if you had it
o’er again—’twould pass— |
| So thank your stars that matters are no
worse, |
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your
purse.’
|
| Lord Byron |
Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ Destruction of the Sennacherib ] [ Growing Old ] [ She Walks in Beauty ] [ Italy versus England ] [ The Eve of Waterloo ] [ from The Prisoner of Chillon ] [ The Isles of Greece ] [ from Don Juan ] |
