Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
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Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Lord Byron
Journal In Cephalonia
The dead have been awakened—shall I sleep?
The World's at war with tyrants—shall I crouch?
The harvest's ripe—and shall I pause to reap?
I slumber not; the thorn is in my Couch;
Each day a trumpet soundeth in mine ear,
Its echo in my heart——