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The works of Lord Byron

A new, revised and enlarged edition, with illustrations. Edited by Ernest Hartley Coleridge and R. E. Prothero
Byron, George Gordon Byron (1788-1824)

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Vol. I. HOURS OF IDLENESS AND OTHER EARLY POEMS.
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Vol. II.
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Vol. III.
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Vol. IV.
  
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.
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POEMS OF JULY—SEPTEMBER, 1816.
  
MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN,
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MANFRED:
  
THE LAMENT OF TASSO.
  
BEPPO:
  
ODE ON VENICE.
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MAZEPPA.
  
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE.
  
THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE
  
FRANCESCA OF RIMINI.
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MARINO FALIERO,
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THE VISION OF JUDGMENT.
  
PREFACE.
 I. 
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 II. 
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 III. 
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 IV. 
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 V. 
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 VI. 
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 VII. 
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 VIII. 
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 IX. 
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 X. 
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 XI. 
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 XII. 
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 XIII. 
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 XIV. 
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 XV. 
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 XVI. 
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 XVII. 
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 XVIII. 
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 XIX. 
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 XX. 
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 XXI. 
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 XXII. 
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 XXIII. 
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 XXIV. 
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 XXV. 
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 XXVI. 
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 XXVII. 
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 XXVIII. 
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 XXIX. 
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 XXX. 
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 XXXI. 
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 XXXII. 
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 XXXIII. 
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 XXXIV. 
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 XXXV. 
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 XXXVI. 
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 XXXVII. 
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 XXXVIII. 
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 XXXIX. 
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 XL. 
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 XLI. 
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 XLII. 
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 XLIII. 
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 XLIV. 
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 XLV. 
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 XLVI. 
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 XLVII. 
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 XLVIII. 
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 XLIX. 
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 L. 
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 LI. 
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 LII. 
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 LIII. 
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 LIV. 
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 LV. 
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 LVI. 
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 LVII. 
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 LVIII. 
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 LIX. 
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 LX. 
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 LXI. 
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 LXII. 
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 LXIII. 
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 LXIV. 
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 LXV. 
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 LXVI. 
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 LXVII. 
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 LXVIII. 
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 LXIX. 
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 LXX. 
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 LXXI. 
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 LXXII. 
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 LXXIII. 
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 LXXIV. 
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 LXXV. 
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 LXXVI. 
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 LXXVII. 
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 LXXVIII. 
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 LXXIX. 
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 LXXX. 
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 LXXXI. 
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 LXXXII. 
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 LXXXIII. 
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 LXXXIV. 
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 LXXXV. 
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 LXXXVI. 
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 LXXXVII. 
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 LXXXVIII. 
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 LXXXIX. 
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 XC. 
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 XCI. 
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 XCII. 
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 XCIII. 
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 XCIV. 
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 XCV. 
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 XCVI. 
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 XCVII. 
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 XCVIII. 
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 XCIX. 
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 C. 
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 CI. 
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 CII. 
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 CIII. 
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 CIV. 
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 CV. 
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 CVI. 
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POEMS 1816–1823.
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THE BLUES:
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Vol. V.
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[volume]

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XVII.

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene,
Where but for him that strife had never been,
A breathing but devoted warrior lay:
'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away.
363

His follower once, and now his only guide,
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side,
And with his scarf would staunch the tides that rush,
With each convulsion, in a blacker gush;
And then, as his faint breathing waxes low,
In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow:
He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain,
And merely adds another throb to pain.
He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage,
And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page,
Who nothing fears—nor feels—nor heeds—nor sees—
Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees;
Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim,
Held all the light that shone on earth for him.
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