Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/604

562 There was something so warm and sublime in the core

Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy—thy dead.

32.

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore,

Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power,

'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore! Ra. September 16, 1821. [First published, Paris, September 19, 1821.]

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA.

1.

, talk not to me of a name great in story—

The days of our Youth are the days of our glory;

And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty

Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.