Byronic Antihero Beard Oil

He stood some dread was on his face, Soon Hatred settled in its place: It rose not with the reddening flush Of transient Angers hasty blush, But pale as marble oer the tomb, Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. His brow was bent, his eye was glazed; He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, And sternly shook his hand on high, As doubting to return or fly; Impatient of his flight delayd, Here loud his raven charger neighd Down glanced that hand, and graspd his blade; That sound had burst his waking dream, As Slumber starts at owlets scream, The spur hath lanced his coursers sides; Away, away, for life he rides: Swift as the hurld on high jerreed Springs to the touch his startled steed: The rock is doubled, and the shore Shakes with the clattering tramp no more: The crag is won, no more is seen His Christian crest and haughty mien. T was but an instant he restraind That fiery barb so sternly reind; T was but a moment that he stood, Then sped as if by death pursued; But in that instant oer his soul Winters of Memory seemd to roll, And gather in that drop of time A life of pain, an age of crime. Oer him who loves, or hates, or fears, Such moment pours the grief of years: What felt he then, at once opprest By all that most distracts the breast? That pause, which ponderd oer his fate, Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! Though in Times record nearly nought, It was Eternity to Thought ! For infinite as boundless space The thought that Conscience must embrace, Which in itself can comprehend Woe without name, or hope, or end. The Giaour, Lord Byron An aristocratic cologne of titanic passions, moody and brooding. This scent is dark with disillusionment and cynicism: a Victorian fougre and a dashing carnation boutonniere tainted by a cloud of khus, yew, and patchouli.