Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Lord ByronJ. Robins, 1828 - 756 sider |
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Side 44
... heart must revere : With a sigh I resign What I once thought was mine , And forgive her deceit with a Tear . Ye friends of my heart , Ere from you I depart , This hope to my breast is most near : -- If again we shall meet In this rural ...
... heart must revere : With a sigh I resign What I once thought was mine , And forgive her deceit with a Tear . Ye friends of my heart , Ere from you I depart , This hope to my breast is most near : -- If again we shall meet In this rural ...
Side 49
... heart of a child ? But still I perceived an emotion the same As I felt , when a boy , on the crag - cover'd wild : One image alone on my bosom impress'd- I lov'd my bleak regions , nor panted for new : And few were my wants , for my ...
... heart of a child ? But still I perceived an emotion the same As I felt , when a boy , on the crag - cover'd wild : One image alone on my bosom impress'd- I lov'd my bleak regions , nor panted for new : And few were my wants , for my ...
Side 50
... heart is unbending , And what would be justice appears a disgrace . However , dear S—— , ( for I still must esteem you— The few whom I love I can never upbraid ) The chance which has lost may in future redeem you Repentance will cancel ...
... heart is unbending , And what would be justice appears a disgrace . However , dear S—— , ( for I still must esteem you— The few whom I love I can never upbraid ) The chance which has lost may in future redeem you Repentance will cancel ...
Side 51
... heart of fear disarms , Revives my hopes , and bids me live . Here I can trace the locks of gold Which round thy snowy forehead wave ; The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould , The lips which made me Beauty's slave . Here I can ...
... heart of fear disarms , Revives my hopes , and bids me live . Here I can trace the locks of gold Which round thy snowy forehead wave ; The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould , The lips which made me Beauty's slave . Here I can ...
Side 53
... hearts beguile , Smile , at least , or seem to smile : Eyes like thine were never meant To hide their orbs in dark ... heart is given to some others ; That is to say , unskill'd to cozen , It shares itself among a dozen . Marion ...
... hearts beguile , Smile , at least , or seem to smile : Eyes like thine were never meant To hide their orbs in dark ... heart is given to some others ; That is to say , unskill'd to cozen , It shares itself among a dozen . Marion ...
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Ali Pacha appeared arms bard beauty behold beneath blood bosom breast breath brow Cain called Calmar canto Cephalonia character Childe Harold Countess Guiccioli dark dead death Doge dread dream earth Edinburgh Review English eyes fair fame fate father fear feel gaze genius Giaour grave Greece Greek hand hath heart heaven hero honour hope hour knew lady Lara less letter live look Lord Byron lordship Mavrocordatos Mazeppa mind Missolonghi Morea mortal Muse ne'er never Newstead Abbey night noble o'er once Parisina passed passion Patras perhaps person poem poet poetry replied Samian wine Sardanapalus scarce scene seemed shore Siegendorf sigh sleep smile song soul Southey speak spirit stanzas Suliotes tears thee thine things thou thought turned twas Venice verse voice wave wild wish words young youth
Populære passager
Side 333 - To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God.
Side 315 - And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed. The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war...
Side 328 - And this is in the night. — Most glorious night ! Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee ! How the lit lake shines a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! And now again 'tis black, — and now the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
Side 732 - Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep ! He hath awakened from the dream of life. 'Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings.
Side 545 - Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three To make a new Thermopylae! What, silent still ? and silent all ? Ah, no; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head. But one, arise — we come, we come!
Side 385 - Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse : And now they change ; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray.
Side 673 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze A funeral pile.
Side 183 - And marked the mild, angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, The fixed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And — but for that sad shrouded eye...
Side 388 - Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery.
Side 545 - And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more ! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? 'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here ? For Greeks a blush, for Greece a tear ! Must we but weep o'er days more blest?