Selections from the Poetry of Lord ByronH. Holt, 1900 - Всего страниц: 412 |
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Стр. xxiv
... sound sleep that ' knows no waking ' ? I hope I am sincere ; I was so at least on a bed of sickness in a far - distant country , when I had neither friend , nor comforter , nor hope , to sustain me . I looked to death as a relief from ...
... sound sleep that ' knows no waking ' ? I hope I am sincere ; I was so at least on a bed of sickness in a far - distant country , when I had neither friend , nor comforter , nor hope , to sustain me . I looked to death as a relief from ...
Стр. xxviii
... sound convey'd ? He look'd to the banners - each flag lay still , So did the leaves on Citharon's hill , And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; What did that sudden sound bespeak ? He turn'd to the left - is he sure of sight ...
... sound convey'd ? He look'd to the banners - each flag lay still , So did the leaves on Citharon's hill , And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; What did that sudden sound bespeak ? He turn'd to the left - is he sure of sight ...
Стр. xxxix
... sound - a voice - a shriek - a fearful call ! A long , loud shriek — and silence - did they hear That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? They heard and rose , and , tremulously brave , Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save ...
... sound - a voice - a shriek - a fearful call ! A long , loud shriek — and silence - did they hear That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? They heard and rose , and , tremulously brave , Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save ...
Стр. 14
... Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants ' slaves ? —the fires of death , The bale - fires flash on high : —from rock to ...
... Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants ' slaves ? —the fires of death , The bale - fires flash on high : —from rock to ...
Стр. 16
... sounds ; Here Folly still his votaries enthralls , And young - eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds : Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals , Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls . XLVII . Not so the rustic ...
... sounds ; Here Folly still his votaries enthralls , And young - eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds : Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals , Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls . XLVII . Not so the rustic ...
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Abbot Æschylus Alps Astarte Athens beauty behold beneath blood breast breath brow Byron Byron's note Cain canto Capitoline hill Childe Harold Chillon clouds Countess Guiccioli dark death deep Don Juan doth dread dream earth edition eternal eyes fair fame Faust feel gaze Giaour glory grave Greece hath heart heaven Hell hour human immortal Jungfrau lake land lines living Lord Lord Byron Lucifer lyric Manfred Manfred's Mazeppa mind mortal mountains nature ne'er never night o'er ocean pass'd passage passion Pausanias perhaps poem poet poet's poetic poetry Prisoner of Chillon rhyme rock sail Samian wine scene seem'd Shelley Shipwreck shore Siege of Corinth smile song soul spirit stanzas star story suggested sweet tears thee thine things thought Twas Venice verse waters wave wild wind Witch woes words Wordsworth written youth ΙΟ
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Стр. 153 - twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here.
Стр. 153 - Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests: in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm. Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime; The image of eternity, the throne Of the Invisible: even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
Стр. 303 - 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. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain.
Стр. 128 - There is the moral of all human tales; 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page...
Стр. 263 - The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! "Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse ; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires'
Стр. 264 - 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?
Стр. 246 - Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd, Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd, Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony.
Стр. 296 - She walks in beauty like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes ; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Стр. 266 - But words are things ; and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think...
Стр. 291 - These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear That Tyranny shall quake to hear...