Lord Byron Poems (Poems Written by a Legendary Poet)

Before passing away too soon in his mid-thirties while fighting in Greece, George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824), composed a significant amount of poetry normally referred to as the “lord byron poems”.

Lord Byron Poems

One of the most well-known and, perhaps, the most contentious English writers of the second generation of Romanticism was George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824). Below are a collection of his poems.


All is Vanity, Saieth the Preacher (Lord Byron Poems)


Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine,
And health and youth possess’d me;
My goblets blush’d from every vine,
And lovely forms caress’d me;
I sunn’d my heart in beauty’s eyes,
And felt my soul grow tender:
All earth can give, or mortal prize,
Was mine of regal splendour.


I strive to number o’er what days
Remembrance can discover,
Which all that life or earth displays
Would lure me to live over.
There rose no day, there roll’d no hour
Of pleasure unembitter’d;
And not a trapping deck’d my power
That gall’d not while it glitter’d.


The serpent of the field, by art
And spells, is won from harming;
But that which coils around the heart,
Oh! who hath pwer of charming?
It will not list to wisdom’s lore,
Nor music’s voice can lure it;
But there it stings for evermore
The soul that must endure it.


A Sketch (Lord Byron Poems)

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,

Promoted thence to deck her mistress’ head;

Next for some gracious service unexpress’d,

And from its wages only to be guess’d­

Raised from the toilette to the table,­ where

Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.

With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash’d,

She dines from off the plate she lately wash’d.

Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie,

The genial confidante, and general spy,

Who could, ye gods! her next employ­ment guess–

An only infants earliest governess!

She taught the child to read, and taught so well,

That she herself, by teaching, learn’d to spell.

An adept next in penmanship she grows;

As many a nameless slander deftly shows.

What she had made the pupil of her art,

None know–but that high Soul secured the heart,

And panted for the truth it could not hear,

With longing breast and undeluded ear.

Foil’d was perversion by that youthful mind,

Which Flattery fool’d not, Baseness could not blind,

Deceit infect not, near Contagion soil,

Indulgence weaken, nor Example spoil,

Nor master’d Science tempt her to look down

On humbler talents with a pitying frown,

Nor Genius swell, nor Beauty render vain,

Nor Envy ruffle o retaliate pain,

Nor Fortune change, Pride raise, nor Passion bow,

Nor virtue teach austerity-till now.

Serenely purest of her sex that live,

But wanting one sweet weakness–to for­give,

Too shock’d at faults her soul can never know,

She deems that all could be like her be­low:

Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue’s friend,

For Virtue pardons those she would amend.

But to the theme, now laid aside too long,

The baleful burthen of this honest song,

Though all her former functions are no more,

She rules the circle which she served before.

If mothers–none know why–before her quake;

If daughters dread her for the mothers’ sake;

If early habits–those false links, which bind

At times the loftiest to the meanest mind­

Have given her power too deeply to instil

The angry essence of her deadly will;

If like a snake she steal within your walls,

Till the black slime betray her as she crawls;

If like a viper to the heart she wind,

And leave the venom there she did not find;

What marvel that this hag of hatred works

Eternal evil latent as she lurks,

To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,

And reign the Hecate of domestic hells?

Skill’d by a touch to deepen scandal’s tints

With all the kind mendacity of hints,

While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles,

A thread of candour with a web of wiles:

A plain blunt show of briefly–spoken seaming,

To hide her bloodless heart’s soul­-harden’d scheming;

A lip of lies; a face form’d to conceal,

And, without feeling, mock at all who feel:

With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown ,

A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone.

Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood

Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud,

Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,

Or darker greenness of the scorpion’s scale–

(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace

Congenial colours in that soul or face)

Look on her features! and behold her mind

As in a mirror of itself defined:

Look on the picture! deem it not o’ercharged

There is no trait which might not be enlarged:

Yet true to ‘Nature’s journeymen,’ who made

This monster when their mistress left off trade–

This female dog-star of her little sky,

Where all beneath her influence droop or die.

Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought,

Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought–

The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou

Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now;

Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,

And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.

May the strong curse of crush ‘d affections light

Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!

And make thee in thy leprosy of mind

As loathsome to thyself as to mankind!

Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,

Black–as thy will for others would create:

Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,

And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.

Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed,

The widow’d couch of fire, that thou hast spread!

Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer,

Look on thine earthly victims–and despair!

Down to the dust!–and, as thou rott’st away,

Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.

But for the love I bore, and still must bear,

To her thy malice from all ties would tear

Thy name–thy human name–to every eye

The climax of all scorn should hang on high,

Exalted o’er thy less abhorr’d compeers–

And festering in the infamy of years.


Aholibamah’s Monologue (Lord Byron Poems)

Let them fly!

I hear the voice which says that all must die,

Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs died;

And that on high

An ocean is prepared,

While from below

The deep shall rise to meet heaven’s overflow.

Few shall be spared,

It seems; and, of that few, the race of Cain

Must lift their eyes to Adam’s God in vain.

Sister! since it is so,

And the eternal Lord

In vain would be implored

For the remission of one hour of woe,

Let us resign even what we have adored,

And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword,

If not unmoved, yet undismay’d,

And wailing less for us than those who shall

Survive in mortal or immortal thrall,

And, when the fatal waters are allay’d,

Weep for the myriads who can weep no more.

Fly, seraphs! to your own eternal shore,

Where winds nor howl nor waters roar.

Our portion is to die,

And yours to live for ever:

But which is best, a dead eternity,

Or living, is but known to the great Giver.

Obey him, as we shall obey;

I would not keep this life of mine in clay

An hour beyond his will;

Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace,

For all the mercy which Seth’s race

Find still.


And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven,

Think that my love still mounts with thee on high,


And if I look up with a tearless eye,

‘Tis that an angel’s bride disdains to weep,-

Farewell! Now rise, inexorable deep!

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