Byron's mature style is wonderfully discursive, ranging from Aristotle through hitting the sack to hitting the bottle sack, while relishing the rhyme on "Aristotle" and "bottle" along he way; he reminds us again and again that poetry can be serious without being solemn, that it might even be fun.
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Book Description
Editorial Reviews
Review
51. The Shipwreck
Beppo: A Venetian Story
Churchill's Grave
The Destruction Of Sennacherib
Don Juan: Canto 1
Don Juan: Dedication [or, Invocation]
Epigram On Castlereagh
Epigram On My Wedding Day: To Penelope
Epistle To Augusta
Haidee And Juan Carpeted Their Feet
Hoarse Fitzgerald
Lines On Hearing That Lady Byron Was Ill
On My Thirty-third Birthday
On This Day I Complete My Thirty-sixth Year
Remember Thee! Remember Thee!
She Walks In Beauty
Song
The Spell Is Broke, The Charm Is Flown!
To Thomas Moore (1)
The Town Was Taken - Whether He Might Yield
The Vision Of Judgement
Wet Fingers Drawn On Glass
Written After Swimming From Sestos To Abydos
-- Table of Poems from Poem Finder®
Beppo: A Venetian Story
Churchill's Grave
The Destruction Of Sennacherib
Don Juan: Canto 1
Don Juan: Dedication [or, Invocation]
Epigram On Castlereagh
Epigram On My Wedding Day: To Penelope
Epistle To Augusta
Haidee And Juan Carpeted Their Feet
Hoarse Fitzgerald
Lines On Hearing That Lady Byron Was Ill
On My Thirty-third Birthday
On This Day I Complete My Thirty-sixth Year
Remember Thee! Remember Thee!
She Walks In Beauty
Song
The Spell Is Broke, The Charm Is Flown!
To Thomas Moore (1)
The Town Was Taken - Whether He Might Yield
The Vision Of Judgement
Wet Fingers Drawn On Glass
Written After Swimming From Sestos To Abydos
-- Table of Poems from Poem Finder®
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The Destruction of Sennacherib
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
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