Poem by George Gordon Byron

The Conquest

The Son of Love and Lord of War I sing;
  Him who bade England bow to Normandy   
And left the name of conqueror more than king
  To his unconquerable dynasty.
Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing,
  He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high:
The **** kept, like lions, his prey fast,
  And Britain's bravest victor was the last.

1. Epitaph
2. Churchill’s Grave
3. On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School
4. Lines Addressed to a Young Lady
5. To the Earl of Clare

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