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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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POEMS 1809–1813.
  
THE GIRL OF CADIZ.
  
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA.
  
TO FLORENCE.
  
STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A THUNDERSTORM.
  
STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF.
  
THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS FLOWN!
  
WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS.
  
LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS.
  
MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.
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FRAGMENT FROM THE “MONK OF ATHOS.”
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LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.
  
TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONG, “Δευτε παιδες των Ελληνων.”
  
TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, “Μπενω μεσ' το περιβολι, Ωραιοτατη Χαηδη,” κ.τ.λ.
  
ON PARTING.
  
FAREWELL TO MALTA.
  
NEWSTEAD ABBEY.
  
EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,
  
TO THYRZA.
  
AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE!
  
ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE.
  
EUTHANASIA.
  
AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR.
  
LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.
  
IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN.
  
ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN.
  
THE CHAIN I GAVE.
  
LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.
  
ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.
  
PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS.
  
VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT HALES-OWEN.
  
REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE!
  
TO TIME.
  
TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG.
  
THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE.
  
ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE “ORIGIN OF LOVE.”
  
ON THE QUOTATION, “And my true faith can alter never, Though thou art gone perhaps for ever.”
  
REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S POWER.
  
IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.
  
SONNET.
  
SONNET.
  
FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
  
THE GIAOUR:
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THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS.
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THE CORSAIR:
  
ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE.
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LARA:
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HEBREW MELODIES.
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POEMS 1814–1816.
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THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.
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PARISINA.
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POEMS OF THE SEPARATION.
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Vol. IV.
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Vol. V.
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III.

But near and nearest to the wall
Of those who wish and work its fall,
With deeper skill in War's black art,
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart
As any Chief that ever stood
Triumphant in the fields of blood;
From post to post, and deed to deed,
Fast spurring on his reeking steed,
Where sallying ranks the trench assail,
And make the foremost Moslem quail;
Or where the battery, guarded well,
Remains as yet impregnable,
Alighting cheerly to inspire
The soldier slackening in his fire;
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The first and freshest of the host
Which Stamboul's Sultan there can boast,
To guide the follower o'er the field,
To point the tube, the lance to wield,
Or whirl around the bickering blade;—
Was Alp, the Adrian renegade!
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