It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whisper'd word. - Lord Byron

History, with all her volumes vast, hath but one page

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom.
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
Away; we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress;
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou—who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

The blest are the dead,
Who see not the sight
Of their own desolation; 50
This work of a night — This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — For ages I’ve done, and shall still be renewing