Back to Index


by George Gordon Byron, 1881

(Childe Harold, Canto iv. Stanzas 30–32.)

  THERE is a tomb in Arqua;—rear’d in air,
  Pillar’d in their sarcophagus, repose
  The bones of Laura’s lover; here repair
  Many familiar with his well-sung woes,
  The pilgrims of his genius. He arose
  To raise a language, and his land reclaim
  From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes:
  Watering the tree which bears his lady’s name
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.

  They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died;
  The mountain-village where his latter days
  Went down the vale of years; and ’tis their pride—
  An honest pride—and let it be their praise,
  To offer to the passing stranger’s gaze
  His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain
  And venerably simple, such as raise
  A feeling more accordant with his strain
Than if a pyramid form’d his monumental fane.

  And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt
  Is one of that complexion which seems made
  For those who their mortality have felt,
  And sought a refuge from their hopes decay’d
  In the deep umbrage of a green hill’s shade,
  Which shows a distant prospect far away
  Of busy cities, now in vain display’d,
  For they can lure no further; and the ray
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday.

Published in Poetry of Byron

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.