Romina:
When a child he lived in poverty,
wealth developed in his mind,
handsome, pale aristocratic ancestry,
Byron was his name.
Cambridge days, those were the crazy days,
he, the leader of a new wave,
profile posed against a stormy, windy sky,
a symbol for the brave.
One thousand cups of gold,
many the stories told,
so many heroes alive.
He, no one could control,
earth was no home to him,
bright is the place of his soul.
Bright is the place of his soul.
England in the 19th century
had condemned him as depraved
with his exile his extravagance was paid
while the public raved.
Water city of the heart he chose,
Venice, a lover and a friend,
a crazy caravan of countess, monkey and dogs,
he set a gypsy trend.
One thousand cups of gold,
many the stories told,
so many heroes alive.
He, no one could control,
earth was no home to him,
bright is the place of his soul.
Bright is the place of his soul.
Tyrone Power (reciting Byron’s “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto the Third”, paragraph 115, first five lines):
My daughter! With thy name this song begun.
My daughter! With thy name thus much shall end.
I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none
can be so wrapt in thee, thou art the friend
to whom the shadows of far years extend.
Romina:
With the poets that will never die,
northern winds blew him to Greece.
In the Aegian water’s ancient battle zone
Byron rests in peace.