Byron

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Harper, 1880 - Всего страниц: 212
 

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Стр. 140 - They never fail who die In a great cause : the block may soak their gore ; Their heads may sodden in the sun ; their limbs Be strung to city gates and castle walls — But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years Elapse, and others share as dark a doom, They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts Which overpower all others, and conduct The world at last to freedom.
Стр. 50 - Near this spot Are deposited the Remains Of one Who Possessed Beauty Without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, And all the Virtues of Man Without his Vices. This Praise, which would be unmeaning flattery If inscribed over Human Ashes, Is but a just tribute to the Memory of "Boatswain," a Dog Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey Nov. 18, 1808.
Стр. 101 - Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider.
Стр. 59 - Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where, Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? Gone — glimmering through the dream of things that were : First in the race that led to Glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole ? A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
Стр. 116 - What I have done is done; I bear within A torture which could nothing gain from thine. The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts, Is its own origin of ill and end, And its own place and time...
Стр. 116 - Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
Стр. 106 - Passed whole woods of withered pines, all withered ; trunks stripped and barkless, branches lifeless ; done by a single winter, — their appearance reminded me of me and my family.
Стр. 99 - Deserved to be dearest of all: In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
Стр. 126 - I despair of rivalling Lord Byron, as well I may, and there is no other with whom it is worth contending.
Стр. 157 - It was that fatal and perfidious Bark Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

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