Related:

• Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 109...
• Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 42...
• Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 183...
• Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 115...
• Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 57...
• Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow,-- Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 182...
• Then farewell Horace, whom I hated so,-- Not for thy faults, but mine.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 77...
• Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?
  Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?...
• Fills The air around with beauty.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iv, Stanza 49...