But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent, Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race. There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life, Yet loathe the banquet which perforceMust feed thy livid living corse. Thy victims ere they yet expireShall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
George Gordon Byron
poem vampire
Despair and Genius are too oft connected
poem
Many are poets, but without the name; For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate, And be the new Prometheus of new men, Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late, Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain
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