They never fail who die

In a great cause: the block may soak their gore:

Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs

Be strung to city gates and castle walls—

But still their Spirit walks abroad. Though years

Elapse, and others share as dark a doom,

They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts

Which overpower all others, and conduct

The world at last to Freedom.

What is

Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset;

And mortals may be happy to resemble

The Gods but in decay.

There is no passion

More spectral or fantastical than Hate;

Not even its opposite, Love, so peoples air

With phantoms, as this madness of the heart.

Joy's recollection is no longer joy,

While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still.

O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper,

Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour.

Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil.

LORD BYRON, "To Eliza"