When, to their airy hall, my father's voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountains side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone:
If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.
Please remove all the grades given by illiterates... Who don't know who Byron was Still after death Can we assess him by grades... Oh men...Can't escape from men's hand Even after covering his body with sand...!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Personally one of my favorites! ! It it maintains a low but, well rounded bit of imagery, yet innate hope and vision by the late Lord Byron